Fury
by Incanto
Summary: A young man finds himself hunted, marked for death by powerful enemies of whom he knows nothing...but the real threat may lie closer to home. A new take on the story of the game. Complete. Seriously. Why do people still have this story on Update Alert?
1. A Friendly Face

**Introduction **

_Fury_ is a novelization of the first Baldur's Gate – more or less.

It will be a liberal novelization. Partly because of my ever-so-slightly hazy memory of the original game (I've played Shadows of Amn several times, but BG only once), partly because of certain things I want to revise for a tighter, more focused plot. But in most respects, I mean to be faithful.

Enjoy.

* * *

A girl staggered into the keep of the Friendly Arm Inn carrying a corpse in her arms.

"Help him! Help him!"

Chairs screeched back; drinks spilled; silence spread through the room. If it was help she sought, her cries had the opposite effect. The patrons of the Friendly Arm – several red-faced drunkards, a pair of dwarves, and two well-armed adventurers sitting near the bar – stared at her with a uniform dull astonishment.

"Help him!" she screamed again. Her arms shook with the burden. Only a girl, slightly built; and if the body were not even slighter, she could never have lifted it. A half-elf boy, not past his eighteenth year, splashed over the chest and shoulders with blood, his face pale and slack. The girl was younger still. For all that, they were no innocents; a bow was strapped to her back, an empty scabbard hung from his belt. Two children, armed, who had come to grief somewhere out in the night.

Her knees gave out, and she fell to the floor still holding the boy. The two adventurers by the bar stood quickly and crossed the room.

"Leave go of him, child; I'll tend to him," said the one, a dark-skinned woman. "I am versed in healing arts…There's no cause for alarm."

An excited muttering began to replace the silence. Men who had reared back in their chairs now jostled forward for a better look, relieved that they had not had to act.

The girl gave up her hold on the boy and put him gently down. She shuddered as his head touched the floorboards, as if she were afraid even so small a shock would kill him – but surely he was already dead. The blood had drained from his lips and they were as white as the crawling things in the ground.

The adventurer woman knelt by him.

"There's no time to loose," she muttered, and, taking hold of him roughly, turned him over. Her small dark hands flickered over his back and sides. She darted a questioning look at the girl.

"I see no wounds."

The girl, kneeling trembling with her hands pressed between her legs, said with an idiosyncratic calm: "That's not his blood."

The woman examined him more carefully. She saw, feeling a cold spasm, that the blood was thickest on his hands. It lay in dark half-moons under his fingernails.

She looked up at the girl again, and asked softly: "What happened."

"W-we…" The girl tried to speak, but began to weep violently instead. Wrapping her arms around her narrow shoulders, she begged indistinctly: "…somebody…_please_…"

The woman's companion, a man who shared her traveler's garb and elfin features but not her dark skin, moved around the body and knelt by the girl. He placed a clumsy hand on her shoulder.

"T-there, there…" he muttered, in a voice that shook as much as hers.

The woman muttered a healing incantation over the body. Blue light flickered over his chest, and in a moment, blood returned in a rush to his lips and cheeks.

"Silvanus' name," she muttered, shaking her head. "What a world this is."

One of the Friendly Arms' enforcers had come to stand in the open door. The woman caught sight of him.

"Guards!" she exclaimed, her voice half relieved, half accusatory. "What has been done to these children; how is it they've come to harm in these walls?"

The enforcer's face was also pale, and he looked away. "It's not so much," he said, pushing a hand through his hair, "what's been done _to_ them…"

"What's that? Speak plainly, man."

The enforcer cleared his throat. "It's not so much what's been done _to_ them," he almost whispered, "as what he _did_ – that one there."

He shot a fearful look at the unconscious boy.

Now the girl stammered, trying to speak. "I-it's not—no! We were j-just minding our own _business_, and…"

Another, older enforcer appeared beside the first. A sensible man, he quickly saw the adventurer woman was in control of the situation, and addressed her directly: "I saw it all plainly, ma'am. The girl is right, I believe; they wasn't to blame. Nevertheless…" His face clouded, and, like his compatriot, he looked away.

"Yes?" said the woman.

He hesitated. "I – believe we've met before. Jaheira, isn't it?"

"That is correct."

"You and your husband look like the capable sort. Would you do us all a favor and help get these two out of sight somewhere? Take 'em up to a room, like. I'll straighten it out with Bentley."

"I suppose that would be wise," said Jaheira. She glanced over her shoulder at the patrons; they had all turned their chairs to face the drama, and watched complacently. She climbed to her feet.

"All of you!" she said, in a tone that would have made many a man cringe. "Have you no shame at all! This is no concern of yours; leave off your cow-eyed staring."

"Right folks," said the elder enforcer, nodding. "Nothing to see 'ere. As you were."

Together, they lifted the insensible, blood-drenched body and carried it toward the stairs, while Jaheira's husband helped along the still-weeping girl, speaking to her with his stammering but honest tenderness. At a gesture from his superior, the younger enforcer remained behind.

Blood dripped underneath the body as it moved. In spite of Jaheira's command, every pair of eyes in the keep followed the group until the moment they climbed up out of sight.

* * *

The enforcer, Lett by name, stroked his gray moustache with his finger while he spoke. "Now the way I saw it, these two were comin' around the front of the keep, like. The boy with his sword, her with the bow n' arrows. Heavy weapons for young uns as such, but it's not my business to be the judge. They looked like the good enough sort. He was in a bad way, I think, looked white as a sheet; but she was a right regular ray o' sunshine – doin' her best to cheer him up, I thought. I was standin' over by the Temple of Oghma. I see 'em come round the front of the keep."

He paused.

The room was lit by a low fire in the hearth. Lett, Khalid and Jaheira stood around it, speaking quietly; the boy was laid out on the bed, stripped of his leathers. The girl sat by him, silent, stroking his hair. She had not uttered another word since her halting attempt to defend him.

"Now perhaps," said Lett, looking at Khalid, "the pair o' you are familiar with a character goes by the name of Tarnesh?"

"A b-bounty hunter," said Khalid, shaking his head. "Disgraceful character."

"A mage of middling ability," added Jaheira. "Called the Debtor's Terror."

"Correct. I didn't think much when I seen him skulking around 'afore; he never seems to cause much trouble. Which is to say he doesn't stalk dangerous game. Well, friends, this time – looks like he set his sights a mite too high."

"Meaning these – _children_?" said Jaheira.

"Laugh if you want," said Lett. "You weren't there."

Jaheira looked to the bed. The boy was still motionless; the girl still stroked his forehead. She looked back at Jaheira with pleading eyes.

Lett went on in a softer voice: "Tarnesh comes down the steps. Not an assuming fellow; just a black robe and a staff. How could they know? But somehow they was on their guard anyway. What I heard was – just barely heard, mind, so I might've gotten a word or two wrong – friend Tarnesh asks the boy, are you so-and-so, the ward of Gorion?"

Jaheira started.

"Alright, miss?"

"I'm fine," she said, shaking her head. "Please continue."

"Right. So Tarnesh comes up to him, asks him silvery-sweet: are you so-and-so, and the boy gets tight, and he says: who wants to know? Tarnesh says, you must be. You fit the description." Lett's eyes tightened. "What a boy like that could do to get on the wrong side o' Tarnesh, I can't imagine. But after what I saw next, maybe I can believe it.

"Tarnesh casts a horror spell. You know the way that – _face_ kind of lingers in the air after you cast one of those. Now working here, I haven't seen any magic bigger than a cantrip in years, let alone a horror spell. That's the business. The kids, they didn't stand half a chance.

"They both take off running. Tarnesh laughs. He's not interested in the girl; he lets her run off toward where I am. It's the boy he's after. I catch the girl; she's screaming her head off. When I catch her she just screams louder. I'm trying to hold her still, calling for help, and over her shoulder I see Tarnesh and the boy. Tarnesh has him backed—" he gestured with his hands—"against the wall o' the keep, and the boy's just cowering there. Tarnesh pulls back his staff to break his head in.

"Then the boy just – stops. Stops cowering. Goes dead still.

"Tarnesh swings. The boy grabs the end of the staff. He wrenches it around; it catches Tarnesh in the side of the head – _thunk_ – and the mage goes down; like that. The boy gets the staff. Then he starts to work on Tarnesh.

"Now I seen a man beaten. I seen bar fights; one time I saw some bandits goin' to work on one of their own. Those were hard men. They did him over bad. But I _never_ saw _any_ man beat another man the way that boy beat Tarnesh.

"He hit him on the head and back with the staff until it broke in half. Then he hit him with the bigger half that was left – then what _that_ broke, he dropped down and went to work his hands.

"By the time my boys pulled him off, what was left of Tarnesh, you could serve to the dogs.

"And that, my friends, is all I can say."

"And the boy…?"

"Afterwards he just dropped."

There was silence. The three of them looked at the girl. She nodded.

"H-he…" she whispered, and Jaheira moved closer, sitting beside her on the bed. She stroked her hand.

"Be calm, child. We only want to assist you."

"He tried to k-kill us."

"Why, child? What harm could he have wished you?"

An idea was forming in Jaheira's mind, but it was nothing for Lett to hear.

"I-I don't _know_!" the girl sobbed.

"Please," said Jaheira to Lett, inclining her head. "She's upset. If you would leave us be—?"

"Sure, sure. I've said my peace; you folks can take care o' yourselves. Suppose I ought to go clean up Tarnesh. Or what's left of him."

With a nod to the girl, Lett stepped out.

Jaheira still held the girl's hand, and now the girl wrapped both her hands around Jaheira's. She leaned her head into the woman's shoulder. "Whoever you are," she said, "t-thank you so much…You just don't understand; it's so, so _nice_ to f-finally see…a friendly face…"

Jaheira kissed her cheek.

"Don't be afraid. You're with friends."

"B-but I don't even know you…"

"I think perhaps you might, though it has been – many, _many_ years since I set eyes on you last. You do hail from Candlekeep, do you not?"

"Yes."

"And your name is Imoen."

"Y-yes!"

"And his,"—she looked at the boy—"is Felix."

"Yes."

Understanding suddenly flashed on Imoen's face. "Then _you're_ – oh, he said we'd find friends here! Friends of Gorion's! I'd forgotten…He wouldn't let me see the letter."

"We are those friends. Though I see our friendship has afforded scant relief so far…"

There was another rustle in the doorway. Jaheira looked up; Lett had returned. He coughed apologetically, and held out a roll of parchment to Khalid.

"My boy downstairs says they found this on the dog's body." He averted his eyes. "I didn't read it, mind. Nor do I want to."

"Thank you…" muttered Khalid, as he unrolled it. His eyes widened. "O-oh my. Oh dear."

"This is your matter. I'll leave you to attend to it," said Lett, saluted, and left again.

"What is it?" said Jaheira, sharply. "Don't just gape like a fool…"

"A b-bounty note," said Khalid, rolling it nervously in fingers. "Three hundred gold."

"On the Ward's head?"

"Yes."

Imoen stifled another sob. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and surprisingly clear: "I don't know what's going on. I don't know what's going on."—she said twice, simply, then began to cry again. "J-Jaheira?"

"That is my name," said Jaheira, gently.

"W-would you please—" Her voice shrunk almost inaudible, "h-hold me?"

"Yes, child."

Jaheira wrapped her strong arms around the girl. Imoen shook in her embrace as if it were the only thing keeping her from falling to pieces.

After a moment, waiting patiently, Jaheira looked back at Khalid. He stood touching his brow, still creasing the note in his other hand.

"Throw that damned thing in the fire," she muttered.

With a solemn nod, he obeyed. It fluttered brightly in the grate; dancing, laughing, seeming to mock them – then it was gone.


	2. Ladies and Gentlemen

On the eleventh day of Mirtul, when Baldur's Gate sizzled under a fat red sun, a quietly-dressed albino called at the headquarters of the Flaming Fist. He wore a cloak to protect his skin, and passed gratefully into the shade the high compound cast over the street. He tossed back his hood and wiped his forehead.

A guard sat in a stone cubicle, watching the door. The albino dropped a polite half-bow.

"Afternoon, sir. _Murdering_ weather, isn't it?"

The guard's face was invisible inside his helmet, but the albino could tell he smirked. "Then it should suit you well enough, eh what, Nimbul?"

Nimbul smiled. "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean."

"And what brings you here today?—Another 'trumped-up charge?' More 'bureaucratic nonsense,' eh? Shame we just don't 'understand' your methods?"

"You mistake me, sir. I have always had a healthy respect for the law. In fact, I'm here to see Captain Angelo, at his own request."

"Likely story."

"See for yourself." Blithely, without a hint of offense, he passed a roll of parchment through the bunker window. The guard unrolled it. He blinked.

"Well blow me down with a reed."

"You see; everything's in order," said Nimbul, then added more quietly: "Perhaps next time you'll hesitate before you accuse an ordinary, peace-loving citizen of evil intent."

The guard squinted through his visor. "Good day to you, then, _sir_," he said slowly.

Nimbul replied as if the sarcasm in the guard's tone had escaped him entirely: "And to you, sir."

He climbed the steps without another look at the guard, his cloak billowing out behind him.

* * *

In the small anteroom outside the Captain's office, a young woman in priest's robes was already seated. Nimbul bowed to her as he entered.

"My lady."

She sat by the window, examining her fingernails in the thin ray of light. Passing in front of her, Nimbul appraised her carefully with a sideways glance. She was pretty, he decided, suspiciously so for a simple woman of faith. Her nails gleamed, and her dark hair had an oiled look.

"Well," she said, without looking up. "What a gentlemen."

"We do try our best," said Nimbul, seating himself, "in these unkind times, you know, to protect the old courtesies…"

"You're here to see Captain Angelo. Why?"

Nimbul laughed softly. "That's a matter between the Captain and myself. Forgive me, it's not for my sake; but I wouldn't want to betray his confidence…"

"Fine." She continued to stare at her fingernails. "I see the 'old courtesies' only extend so far."

"It's not so courteous, is it, to pry into another person's business. Forgive me, but that's not what _my_ mother taught me – at least."

"What a shame."

"Am I wrong?"

"I wouldn't know." Suddenly, as if bored, she darted her eyes away from her hand and began to stare at the wall. "My mother hanged herself when I was ten years old."

Nimbul coughed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be.—See, I'm being candid. Why can't you?"

"Very well, perhaps I'll honor your question if you answer a few of mine."

They spoke more quickly. Nimbul sat in an idle posture, seeming to look at the woman casually, but his eyes never left her.

"That sounds fair," she said. "Ask away."

"Your – _hair_. It's really exquisite."

"Thank you."

"Tell me, what do you use?"

She laughed. "Now you are being frivolous."

"Perhaps," said Nimbul, tossing his head. "I was honestly curious. But – it must be a terrible effort to keep it in such condition?"

"Some days."

"Then – _do_ pardon me – wherever do you find the time, between your prayers and devotions? As you do look, forgive me, like a woman of the cloth…?"

"I am."

"Then I must confess my lack of understanding," he almost whispered. "For surely Helm would strike dead any one of his servants who dared to indulge in such tasteless vanity."

"Perhaps. But I don't serve Helm."

"Then whom do you serve?"

She looked directly at him for the first time. "Is that all your really wanted to know? Then why didn't you ask?"

"I am asking."

She looked back at the wall, and said quietly: "I serve the Black Sun of our dread lord Cyric."

"Ah." Nimbul smiled, and settled back in his chair. "And suddenly all becomes clear."

Before the woman could answer, the door of the Captain's office swung open. "Sir Angelo will see you now," another armored guard announced.

Nimbul and the woman stood together, then looked crossly at each other.

"Good sir, I believe _I _was here before you…"

"Gracious lady, I believe _my_ business is the more pressing…"

"The both of you together," the guard clarified.

The woman started. "What—no!"

Seeing her expression, Nimbul laughed wildly: "Well! Perhaps we'll become friends after all! And perhaps you know what business I have with the Captain; it seems to be yours as well."

"This isn't what I was promised," the woman hissed at the guard. "I work alone…"

The guard didn't answer. Then a faint, hoarse voice came from behind him, drifting out of the darkened office: "Come in here, Neria. Let's talk it over."

At the sound of the voice, Nimbul seemed to brighten. He passed the guard and entered the office. After a minute of silent fuming, Neria gathered up her robes and stalked after him.

* * *

The office was hardly larger than the anteroom and almost pitch-dark. The single window was shut and bolted, and only a trace of light penetrated the shade. The harsh smell of a foreign tobacco hung in the air; Neria coughed.

In the dark, the man behind the desk was hardly visible. He sat leaning far back in his chair, one hand pressed to his forehead, giving the impression of a sick man. It was impossible to see his face; only his long hair, tied in a horsetail. The skin on his arms resembled candle wax.

When Nimbul approached the desk, though, he started forward, and the slightest trace of a smile flickered over his lips. The two men were both thin and pale; expect for their faces, they could have been brothers. They clasped hands.

"An-ge-lo!" said Nimbul, with uncharacteristic heartiness. "Of all the places I _never_ expected to see you." He leaned closer to peer at the Captain's face. "But the years haven't been kind to you, old man. You can't be a day over threescore, but…"

Angelo didn't seem to hear. "Good to see you too, friend," he said vaguely.

Nimbul glanced around. "It's as dark as a casket in here. Bad enough you've become a lawman; don't tell me you're a vampire, too."

"The light hurts my eyes," said Angelo, with another, apologetic smile. His voice never rose above a whisper, and sounded like a child's.

"Are you – _well_, sir?" Neria asked, keeping a little back from the desk as if she feared contagion.

"Well enough to work, thank the gods," said Angelo.

"You don't look it," said Nimbul. "In fact…" He stopped. Something seemed to occur to him, and he drew back. "I forgot myself," he muttered. "Forgive me."

Neria looked from one to the other, perplexed, and there was a moment of silence. Finally Angelo waved his hand.

"But sit, please sit. There's only one chair…My apologies, Neria," he added, "I must grant precedence to my old friend."

Nimbul sat across from him; Neria moved back to stand against the wall. The smell of tobacco still gagged her.

"Sir," she began respectfully, "this man may be a friend of yours, but I had assumed you would prefer to discuss our business privately…"

"Your business is his as well," said Angelo. He reclined again, massaging his temples, and the darkness swallowed his eyes. "Allow me to introduce the two of you. Neria, this is Nimbul, a paid assassin."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," she said coldly.

"Nimbul," said Angelo, "this is Neria, a paid assassin."

"Likewise, my lady," he said, smiling at her over his shoulder.

Angelo opened a desk drawer. He continued to speak as he removed a small pipe and tamped tobacco into the bowl: "Your respective reputations are, of course, beyond question. Neither of you has anything to fear by way of – _working with amateurs_, as I've so often heard it phrased by those in your line."

"It must be a fearsome quarry if one of us wouldn't be sufficient," said Nimbul.

Angelo sucked greedily on the pipe. His eyes fluttered, and when he spoke again, his voice was still fainter: "Indeed…Nimbul, do you remember Tarnesh?"

"The Dragonfly? How could I forget?" said Nimbul, smirking.

"He's dead."

Nimbul blinked. "I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later," he said, without remorse, but with some surprise. "It's dangerous work; you were smart to get out of it."

Angelo chuckled weakly. "I'll thank you not to be so explicit in your reminiscences, Nimbul…You never know who might overhear."

"Ah-ha; forgive me." Nimbul made a motion as if to stitch his lips shut. "Anyway, am I to assume that friend Tarnesh met his end at the hands of this quarry?"

"Yes. And a very bloody end indeed."

Nimbul leaned closer, saying more intently: "Who is it—some rogue soldier?"

"Now, Nimbul, I would have thought you knew your trade better than that." Angelo gave another of his wan smiles. "What does it matter to you?"

Nimbul laughed again. "You're right. Sharp, there, old man."

"You only need to know," Angelo went on, taking another pull on the pipe, "two things. Can you tell me what those two things are, you two?"

"Ah, yes. What they look like…" said Nimbul.

"…and where to find them," Neria finished.

"Correct." Angelo coughed, and suddenly offered the pipe across the desk. Its bowl was made of a strange black wood; its handle was polished silver. "Can I tempt you?"

"You know it, old man." Nimbul took the pipe, leaned forward, and took a short experimental breath. His eyes widened. "By the Black Sun—where'd you get that stuff?"

"I have generous friends."

"I can see that," said Nimbul, returning the pipe. "Perhaps you'll introduce me to them some day. They seem like friends worth having."

"They are, believe me."

"And did they get you this office?"

"You're stepping a little close to my toes, old friend," Angelo said implacably.

"Then I didn't say a word."

"Quite right. But I believe we were talking business." He set the pipe down. "I'm afraid I can't give you a written commission. You understand, of course, that this business is – confined to the _strictest_ secrecy?" he said, with a glance at Neria as well as Nimbul.

"Yes, I confess it struck me as odd that an officer of the Flaming Fist, with a battalion of warriors at his disposal, would pay a rogue to take care of—" Neria began.

Angelo pointed one long, sensitive finger at her throat. "The mark of a real lady," he said, more languidly than ever, "is that she never says more than _absolutely_ necessary. Do you understand me?"

She tensed, and nodded. "I understand."

Another silence. Looking at the bolted window, Angelo seemed nevertheless to speak to Nimbul: "We all do things we aren't proud of sometimes. You understand."

Nimbul's head barely twitched; he might have nodded.

"Good. Then getting on; as I said, I don't want you to be found with any documents. I hope I can trust you to retain a verbal description."

Nimbul nodded, and leaned forward until his elbows brushed the desk. Angelo whispered into his ear. It struck Neria as a moment of unusual, unconscious intimacy. Angelo whispered for nearly a minute. Finally Nimbul drew back, and they nodded at each other. Angelo reached for his pipe again.

"You may work together or separately as you choose," he said. "Only see that the job gets done. I shouldn't have to mention: your reward will be substantial."

"Please elaborate," said Neria.

"Five hundred gold apiece. Five hundred even if only one of you returns…So there'll be no incentive to be the last man standing, if you catch my meaning. But the greatest reward," he added with a smile, "will be the goodwill of the Flaming Fist in all your future endeavors."

"I understand." Nimbul rose, and bowed. "And I appreciate the business. My thanks."

"Your god be with you," said Angelo. "And – see you don't get yourself killed, you tough little bastard. I'd hate to have it on my head."

"Don't worry about me, old man."

They exchanged a final smile.

On the threshold, Neria shot Angelo one last curious look, but he already lost in the white fumes of his pipe. The guard shut the door.

"I hope your business with Captain was concluded – beneficially," he said.

"Oh, yes," said Nimbul, slipping a gold coin into his hand. "Keep up the good work, good sir."

The guard saluted.

Nimbul walked on quickly, and Neria rushed to catch up with him. They passed down the long, dark hall toward the exit.

"It will a pleasure to work with you, my lady," he said without looking back.

"The pleasure is _all_ mine, I assure you."

For a minute they walked in silence. Finally, Neria was unable to restrain her curiosity. "The Captain was ill."

"He wasn't ill."

"You can't tell me he was _well_."

Nimbul looked over his shoulder with a smirk. "Why I'm surprised at you, my lady."

"What do you mean?"

"You've never seen a black lotus addict before?"

She flushed red; Nimbul laughed. "I didn't guess," she muttered, "I-it didn't occur to me…"

"Yes, Captain Angelo has certainly come down in the world, for all he's come up," Nimbul went on, almost gaily, as they passed through the door to the street. "He must have bad dreams."

"What makes you say that?"

"There are only two kinds of men who worship the lotus. Bored idiots, and men with a weight on their conscience," said Nimbul. He stopped to nod to the guard in the bunker, who nodded back.

"And Captain Angelo," he said, turning back to Neria, "is no idiot."

* * *

_Author's Note_: This is our new feature. Today the spotlight is on Captain Angelo.**Behind the Scenes**

Angelo Dosan

Human

Neutral Evil

Dual Class 

Fighter: Level 4 / Abjurer: Level 9

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Ogre Mage

Favorite Weapon: Long Sword +2

Favorite Spell: Bigby's Crushing Hand


	3. Felix's Story

It was early morning; the light turned gray outside the window. While Felix Lightfoot slept, a pair of lips moved close to his ear and whispered:

"O the sun is shinin' in the east and all the birds and singin;'

The guards're yawning in their bunks; the chapel bells are ringin;'

The morning breeze blows through yer door, so gentle-like n' soothin;'

So pull that carcass out of bed, it's time to get a-movin'!"

Felix smiled. The words penetrated his sleep like the chapel bells they mentioned, stripped of their meaning, a ritual. He opened his eyes.

"Imoen."

He saw her grinning face not far from his own. She knelt, leaning her elbows on the bed. "None other."

"I thought I told you…not to come in here like that anymore. It's not right, now that we're older…"

Her grin suddenly vanished.

"Felix, where are we?"

"Home." He regarded her comically. "Where else?"

She was silent. His eyes slowly passed beyond her, over the ugly unfamiliar furniture, the faux-ancient trappings of an inn room. They settled in the menacing shadows of the cobwebbed rafters.

"We're not at home, are we?"

Imoen shook her head.

"We're in trouble. Aren't we?"

Imoen nodded.

Felix shut his eyes. "Imoen? You're alright, aren't you?"

"Right as rain. Right as a right triangle."

"I'm not alright. I did a bad thing, didn't it? I don't remember…"

"Hey." She prodded his shoulder. "Snap out of it, okay? You're just fine. You didn't – _do_ anything. You're alright."

"Lying is evil, Imoen. Bad girls lie. You're not a bad girl, are you?"

She laughed uncertainly, and her laughter gave way to a horrible silence.

A crow cawed outside the window. The sound startled Imoen; there had been no birds but songbirds within the walls of Candlekeep, probably thanks to some enchantment.

She rested her head on his shoulder.

"Imoen," he finally said. "Bad people are after us. Dangerous people."

"I dunno."

"Yes, you do; you do know. Look at me." She did. "I want you to keep safe, alright? Even if…"

He didn't finish.

"It's okay," she whispered, her cheek still pressed on his shoulder. "_You'll_ keep me safe from the bad folks, wontcha?"

"Imoen, I…"

"Imoen what?"

"Sometimes I have bad thoughts," he said vaguely.

"H-ey, we all do sometimes, right? Helm forgives ya."

"Imoen," he said, "I never told you"—but again he stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, and didn't go on.

"What? Never told me what?"

"Never told you…" His eyes, though still open, now had a distant look. "One time…long time ago. About two years ago. We were…I was reading, and you were bugging me…asking me questions. You kept asking me questions. I said I'd cut out your tongue."

She grinned. "I remember. Who's a bad boy now?"

"No, listen," he said in an urgent, low voice. "I was reading, and then I was thinking about it…what it would be like to do it. What it would feel like; I mean your tongue. You know what it's like, when you bite your own tongue…how it feels. The gristle. I thought, would it bleed much…and then could you speak at all? Or would you just make a _sound_, like a cat…"

Her grin had vanished.

"Please don't be afraid," he went on. "I didn't do it, did I? I didn't. It's not even like I _wanted_ to do it. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. The book I was reading, it was about Tethyr. A history of Tethyr, volume two. And I kept thinking what would it be like. Even after I put the book down; at dinner, I was thinking about it. We were eating boar and I _chewed_…

"I was afraid of you. I tried to keep away from you; you thought I was angry…I ran to the library; Parda asked if there was anything wrong. How could I tell her? She asked me if I wanted to play chess.

"I couldn't say no…we played a game and I won. And when it was over, I realized I had stopped thinking about it, just for that long. So we played another game and another one. I think we played five games. Then I felt better, like my all bad thoughts had gone away. Do you understand?"

Eyes blank, she shook her head, but he was too engaged in his words to pay her any mind.

"Parda couldn't understand why I was so happy; I'd lost the last game. But I went up to your room and I kissed you on the cheek and said I was sorry."

"So that's what that was all about," she whispered.

"Yes."

There was a silence.

"Imoen, if anything happened to you, I couldn't forgive myself. You believe me, don't you?"

This time she nodded.

He looked at her suddenly. "I'm scaring you."

She hesitated, looking afraid to admit it.

"I'm sorry—_I'm_ scared, that's all. I'm scared about what's going to happen to us. You understand."

"O-okay."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You know I'd never…"

"Who said anything?" she said shrilly, loudly. "I didn't hear anything. I forgot all about it. C'mon, we've gotta go now, Jaheira's waiting for us…"

"Jaheira?" Felix started, and all the anxious vagueness left his face. "Then we found them. Gorion's friends."

"Yep-yep. They're real good people; you'll see. C'mon!"

She pulled on his arm, but he quickly got up on his own power. "Then we're safe," he muttered. "They'll take care of us."

"Sure hope so." Imoen stood in the middle of the room, shivering impatiently. Felix saw she wore unfamiliar linen pyjamas; the property of the inn, he guessed. "I _love_ Jaheira. She's so nice. Her husband's a little jumpy, though."

Felix raised an eyebrow. "Nice?"

"Yep, real nice."

"I remember when Gorion first mentioned her to me, about a six-month past, I asked him if she was nice. He laughed."

"Well I guess she just likes me," said Imoen, giggling.

They smiled at each other, feeding hungrily on the sudden warmth. All was forgiven; forgotten.

"Race ya! Last one there's a bugbear!" Imoen vanished with a flash of a grin; he laughed, flexed his arms, and followed her at a leisurely pace.

It passed through his mind to wonder where his leathers had gone. Then he noticed, as he looked down at his cotton undershirt, the faintest red stain covering most of the right shoulder.

* * *

Khalid and Jaheira were seated in a corner of the Friendly Arm's upstairs common room. Imoen pointed, gripping Felix's shoulder.

"That's them," she whispered. "Already in their armor, huh? They must be real adventurers."

Although he followed readily, he kept close to her and cast frequent glances all around. There were few other guests, most like himself still wearing their robes and sleeping garments, shuffling bleary-eyed from one room to another.

Jaheira smiled as they approached.

"A good morning to you. These were your first accommodations away from home, were they not? I trust you slept well?"

"Like a log!" chirped Imoen.

Felix didn't answer. Standing behind Imoen, he eyed Jaheira carefully. She seemed cheerful enough, as if there were nothing wrong; or perhaps she had only decided to behave as if there were nothing wrong.

She spoke, pre-empting Felix: "Set your mind at ease, child. We were close, close friends of Gorion – perhaps his best – and we mean you no harm. We will help you if we can."

Grasping for remembered courtesy, Felix ducked his head. "I thank you – I thank you for saving us."

The words, both hers and his own, seemed strange: calm, formal, even businesslike.

"You've been through a t-terrible ord-deal," said Khalid, stuttering more than usual. "P-please sit with us…"

Felix approached the table slowly, and sat stiffly. His eyes moved from Jaheira to Khalid. Khalid seemed ill at ease in front of him, and looked down rather than meet his eyes. He had a long, fine, aristocratic face, strangely matched to his chainmail.

"Yes, v-very good friends," he went on. "And, if he has passed – we share the loss."

Felix was silent, tight-lipped. He looked back at Jaheira.

She had an impressive carriage, even seated. She seemed much taller than her husband – but when he looked between them, it was clear they were more or less exactly the same height, no taller than any half-elf.

That presence somehow reassured him. With a shudder, he remembered the mage's unctuous courtesy—_hi, friend_—and thought he preferred Jaheira's stern mouth and eyes.

For all they were stern, though, her voice dipped low as she met his eyes and said: "Gorion always did speak highly of you."

Felix opened his mouth. He had planned a precise speech, but instead he broke out hoarsely: "Yes—he's dead."

Khalid shook his head; Jaheira sighed.

"I am truly sorry to hear this, child," she said. "But death must come for us all; that is nature's way. And if a man was ever resigned to the way, your foster-father was. He well knew the risks when he accepted his – mission."

Her words puzzled Felix, but he was silent.

"Gorion would be glad you are safe," said Khalid, "at least."

"Yes, it is most fortunate you have found us, and in one piece; more so since it seems – you are in some danger. These are dangerous times, of course, but still more dangerous for some than for others."

"I wouldn't know about that," muttered Felix. "I wouldn't know what kind of times these are…I was never away from the Keep much."

"I understand," said Jaheira. "Well, now at least you know something about the world: it is a grave and terrible place. The founders of your Candlekeep must have understood that. Still, you may set your mind at ease on one point: men seldom attack each other with no provocation whatsoever. That man who attacked you – was after you in particular. We need not say more."

"I know." Felix stared at the grain of the tabletop. "There were others…another man. A man wearing armor."

"Calm yourself, child," said Jaheira, a sympathetic command. "Perhaps you had better tell us you story from the beginning."

"From the beginning…"

Imoen, sitting beside him, saw a familiar vagueness creep into his eyes. She shivered in the warm common room. Jaheira, watching Felix, took no notice of her.

"Gorion had me get my things together," said Felix, haltingly. He was with friends, but his words began to take on the slow, painstaking character of a man giving evidence. "He said we had to leave…immediately. Imoen—" he squeezed her hand under the table, "was acting strange—talking about letters. Then she told me, later, she'd read something in his desk, in Gorion's desk…

"I'm getting mixed up," he said, crossing his eyes. "I'm sorry. We left the keep…I'd so rarely been outside, even within sight of the walls. It was a beautiful day; I was happy. But he was serious. I knew something was wrong. But my _idea_ – of what something wrong could _be_ – I just didn't know; I couldn't have guessed…"

Khalid, now, had recovered from his initial embarrassment, and also watched Felix closely. His eyes began to tremble with sympathy, while Jaheira's face stayed impassive.

"They came on us when night fell. A tall man, wearing armor – heavy armor – with horns, like a devil. I thought it was a dream. There were others with him…I don't remember. Gorion told me to run. So I ran."

"That is all you remember?" said Jaheira, not ungently.

"They were after _me_. That's what they said. I didn't see it. But I heard. They were talking, like – they knew each other. I think. Then there was magic, casting—he screamed.

"You know I knew it was possible. I was old enough; I didn't think he was immortal. I knew. But I never thought he could _scream_…"

He trailed off.

"Don't press yourself if the memory pains you that much," said Jaheira. "Gorion had many enemies; I suppose in the end it is immaterial which one of them did the work. If you would recognize the man, then we may watch for him in the future."

"No…" Felix said.

"_No_? What do mean, child?"

"He was…different. Oh," he said, and clenched his eyes shut. "If _he_ ever finds us, we're lost…"

"We may p-perhaps not entirely look the part," said Khalid, with a sly smile, "but both my w-wife and I – well I certainly wouldn't say we are _peerless_, no, ha, ha, but we aren't without some reputation, either, as warriors…you may t-trust us to keep you safe…"

"I would advise you never to put your trust entirely in another," said Jaheira. "Nonetheless, what Khalid has said is true. If this man or any other would seek to harm you now, he will not find you such easy prey."

He looked at them, each in turn, as if to measure them against his memory of the armored figure.

Finally he said: "Gorion was strong, too."

Jaheira frowned; Khalid looked away.

Felix let his head fall, resting it on the table, and covered it with his arms. His voice was barely audible: "He was so _good_. Why would anyone want to kill him?"

"Because he was good," said Jaheira, bluntly.

"Then why would anyone want to kill _me_?"

For that she had no answer. She looked to the other child, Imoen, who until now had borne the conversation in brave silence.

"I didn't see it," she said. "But – I saw the bodies."

"Bodies, child?"

"Gorion had – killed some of them. But not the armored guy. Not him."

She lowered her eyes.

Now Felix spoke again: "I studied fencing for four years under Blademaster Meilum. I think – Gorion wanted me to learn how to fight. The master said I was a natural."

"That is certainly good to know—" began Jaheira.

"No, you don't understand. When Imoen found me, in the forest, afterwards…we started heading this way, and then—we were attacked. By wolves. Just a pack of wolves. I drew my sword, and – I dropped it. I ran away again.

"Now I don't have it."

The mixture of shame and fear in his voice was almost unbearable.

"He brought me up my whole life," he said. "Eighteen years of _his_ life. Then he died to save me. But why?—I'm worthless."

There was no self-pity in the statement; it was simple and factual.

Imoen sat beside him looking as if she wanted to cry.

Watching them both, Jaheira was suddenly, absurdly reminded of a scene from the past; a scene from the dead man's life. She saw Gorion sitting across from her at a table in this very inn, setting down his tankard of mead—he always had been a hearty drinker—as he said cheerfully:

"I've decided to name the boy Felix! It means 'the happy child,' you know, and that's just what I hope for him…I say, this Calimshite stuff does have a bit of a kick to it, doesn't it?"

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Felix Lightfoot

Half-Elf

True Neutral

Fighter: Level 1

Strength: 13

Dexterity: 16

Constitution: 14

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Tarnesh (formerly rat)

Favorite Weapon: Fencing Sabre

* * *

_AN_: It always struck me as kind of funny that when you're level two, and you get Khalid and Jaheira, they're also level two and their gear's no better than yours…but they're Harper agents who traveled with Gorion and presumably had lots of adventures, whereas your scrub ass spent all twenty-some years of your life in a library.

Thanks to those who reviewed!


	4. Jaheira's Story

Jaheira paused, twisting a lock of her hair around her longest finger, and said as if introducing another subject: "The road ahead of you is long, and comfort will be scare. These trials are not the last you will face. I would be a fool or a liar to tell you otherwise. Yet life across the across the realms is difficult, and comfort is ever hard to come by.

"Gorion himself – was not always a happy man. You will mark that he grew into his old age a bachelor. Perhaps some day I will tell you more of your mother; at the moment such a tale would be an indulgence. Suffice to say that he loved her, but you know he was not your father. We cannot always have the things we want. In fact, it is rare…"

Felix and Imoen listened attentively. Jaheira's words had the lure of any story: they removed her listeners from the present. Although the things she said were true, when she spoke of them it seemed almost like a fairy tale, distant and safe.

Before continuing, she turned to Khalid: "Perhaps our young friends would like a bite to eat? I may be some time telling this story of ours."

He got quickly to his feet. "C-certainly; right away dear…I'll go to kitchens…"

She smiled at him as he left, behind his back, a smile that Felix guessed she would never let him see. When he was gone, she removed a small pipe from a pocket of her leather jerkin.

"Yes, I say _our_ story," she went on as she filled the pipe. "Though I spoke of our late friend, it was only by way of introduction. What I meant was that, while Gorion may not have always had the power to solve the problems in his own life, he had a singular will – and ability, I might add – when it came to solving the problems of others."

She snapped her fingers. A tiny flame appeared on the end of her thumb, and she held it to the bowl of the pipe. Felix's eyes widened, but the gesture had been almost unconscious.

"It is unseemly to brag, and I would not call the three of us great champions of justice. But we traveled the realms, seeking to do more good than we did harm, and I believe we succeeded. Even the smallest amount of good can sometimes be remarkable; can seem like a miracle…Gorion understood that. Though I must admit I sometimes criticized his zeal, believing that it passed the bounds of the natural order – now I think I see. With such ripe fruits of evil in the world, a man can never work too much for good. I begin to think that evil will ever flourish, in spite of our best efforts, to remind us all of the necessity of good—but all of this airy theorizing can be of no use to you. I meant to speak of realities.

"The ills of others are often the surest remedy of our own. That is what I believe, and that is the life I choose. That was the life Gorion chose."

She drew on her pipe, and blew a delicate cloud of smoke over the table. It was a faint blue color, sweet-smelling.

"When Gorion – retired from the adventuring life, it was from the same motives. My husband and I continued on the path. We travel it still."

"Then," Felix ventured, when she paused, "you have come here to do good?"

"That is the story. I will explain everything presently." She smiled. "I have been known, occasionally, to get to the point."

Felix colored; she laughed.

"But first I must tell you something about these times of ours, that you say you know so little of. Are you aware of the iron crisis?"

"Yeah," said Imoen, looking at Felix, "you know ol' Fuller—" she stopped herself from speaking her full nickname for the old guards captain, the implication that he was 'fuller' something—"he was saying iron was in real short supply these days. Somethin' about bandits."

"Yes," said Jaheira, drawing on her pipe again, "the bandits may have a hand in this. But the roots run deeper. You know of the town of Nashkel, to the south?"

"Read about it," said Felix.

"Then you know it is Amnish territory. My husband and I were sent there – by certain friends of ours," she said carefully, "to investigate strange goings-on."

"The iron mines," said Felix. "Nashkel has big iron mines, doesn't it?"

"Precisely." She smiled again. "Aren't you the clever one.—Yes, were sent to inspect the iron mines. We have an old acquaintance with the mayor of that town, a man with the name of Ghastkill. I supposed you can imagine how he came by it.

"We were there some time, performing our – investigations. Then we received Gorion's letter and returned to north, lest he have need of us…" She faltered, and shook her head. "But that is not the point."

Imoen leaned forward, squeezing her hands between her legs. "So what'd ya find?"

"Kobolds," said Jaheira. "Tainted ore. And a blackguard named Mulahey."

Imoen squinted. "Mulahey?"

"A guttural, vulgar name for a guttural, vulgar individual. What I am about to tell you may sound strange, but I saw we saw it all with our own eyes, I assure you…"

* * *

The half-orc had pallid skin like grease-soaked paper. They watched from the shadows as he shuffledaround the small chamber, and though at first he seemed urgently busy, it soon became clear that he was doing nothing at all. He shuffled documents on his desk; he seemed to pray; he constantly muttered and rubbed his hands over the back of his neck. So far he had failed to notice them.

"Remember," said Jaheira in the faintest whisper, cutting her eyes at her husband, "you let _me_ do the talking."

Khalid smiled back. "You k-know me too well, dear."

She squeezed his hand briefly before walking forward, into the light. The half-orc stopped. He was short for his race, taking more after his orcish parent, with powerful sloping shoulders. His head seemed to dart out from behind them, catching a glimpse of her; he turned with an alarmed yelp.

"No!—Not a shipment of iron leaves this mine untainted, and still Mulahey is to be killed…!"

His voice, for such a brutish body, was amusingly high and faint. Probably the dust in the mine had changed it.

Jaheira leaned on her staff, eyeing him coldly. Khalid moved to stand behind her, looking as grim as he was able.

"Your estimation of your own abilities is quite generous. Our employer sees things otherwise—but I am not he. Perhaps I will spare your life."

"P-please! Gracious lady, good, gracious lady, you will hear me out…"

"Silence! Your incompetence does not offend me, but your simpering does. You will answer my questions. If I like your answers, then I will let you live – perhaps."

"Yes! Yes! You don't understand, but – I don't _want_ to die…" Again he rubbed his hands over his neck, and his speech grew almost incoherent. Jaheira pounded her staff.

"I thought I ordered _silence_!"

Mulahey shuffled his feet, and closed his mouth.

"That is a sight better," Jaheira went on softly. "Now my first question."

"Yes, lady, please; I'm listening…"

"I was informed of the purpose of your operation. Yet tell me, why did you select _kobolds_ – creeping, cowardly kobolds – to do the master's work? Do you think so little of him?"

"B-but those were his instructions! Surely he must have told you as much—then we could say, if we were discovered, oh, it was only kobold mischief…surely you see that!"

"Enough! You've given me your answer; I understand you well enough. Do you mean to babble all day?—I ask you another question."

"Please, yes, ask! Anything!"

His panic had risen to a fever pitch. Inwardly, Jaheira wondered at the master who could inspire such dread in a slave.

"I understand that you allowed your underlings to learn the master's name."

Mulahey's eyes suddenly narrowed.

"You are baiting me. Even _I _don't know the master's name."

Jaheira flinched; it had been a risk. But they had learned enough already.

His mouth forming into a snarl, Mulahey growled: "You—deceived me! You are no servants of the master; you are spies!"

Khalid drew his sword; Jaheira fell back, raising her staff: "Fool, you are in no less danger!"

Mulahey made a horrible barking sound; she realized it was laugher. "You are the fool, to think you could cow me more than my master!—To me, guards!" His eyes cut to the door; the room was silent. He screamed again, almost plaintively: "_Guards_!"

"You are alone," said Jaheira, with contempt. "Nothing can save you. You would do best to cooperate."

Mulahey looked down. He made a strange gesture with the fingers of his right hand, like a religious sign. "You are two nothings. No wrath of yours could compare to my master's," he muttered. "Cyric protect me…"

His hand moved toward the short, rusty mace hanging from his belt.

Khalid leapt forward. Mulahey's gesture had been half-hearted, and his hand had not even closed around his weapon's handle when Khalid's blade drove into him. He was wearing no armor. At the last moment, Jaheira recognized him for a priest.

Khalid seemed to embrace him, driving the sword in to the hilt. Mulahey's bulbous face leered over his shoulder.

"Slave…" he muttered in Khalid's ear. "Cyric's blade…will find you yet…"

His eyes rolled back in his head. Khalid pulled the blade free with a sudden motion, wincing; the body crashed to the floor. He shuddered.

"I will n-never fully have an appetite for this work…"

Jaheira spat on the floor. "A creature of the basest emotions. He was less than an animal."

"N-nevertheless…"

Khalid knelt, wiping the blade on Mulahey's tunic. Jaheira moved past him to examine the scatter of papers on the dead man's desk.

* * *

"When we returned to mayor Ghastkill with his body, promising an end to the trouble, we had some difficulty convincing him that Mulahey had not been an agent of the Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate…"

"What makes you so sure he wasn't?" said Imoen, sharply.

Jaheira laughed. "You have a cunning mind, child. But the Grand Dukes are honorable men, and I can assure they would do no such thing. Besides, what would they stand to gain? The Sword Coast, perhaps still more so than Amn, has been affected by this suspicious iron shortage. Still, the Amnish distrust of northerners is the stuff of legend – and perhaps we are no better, in our way. I have heard corresponding muttering on this side of the border that the Amnish and Zhents are to blame for this recent rash of bandit activity – but neither power wants war, or would benefit from it; and neither are these events mere coincidence. Mulahey was clearly a pawn of some nefarious organization."

Imoen's eyes grew wide. More and more, her fear and uncertainty were lost in Jaheira's tale of intrigue. Felix, for his part, seemed less taken, often looking away.

"Whatever his faults, Mulahey was a scrupulous correspondent," Jaheira continued. "We found a wealth of letters in his chambers, unfortunately bearing only the vaguest references to his plans. They did, however, name his immediate contact, a man in the town of Beregost. So we have moved one step up the ladder toward whatever power controlled him."

"An iron shortage," Felix muttered. "But why would anyone…"

"I suspect, when we get to bottom of it, the entire thing will prove quite dull," said Jaheira. Her pipe had burned gray, and she set it down. "Some greedy merchant, no doubt, looking to establish a monopoly; though few greedy merchants would go to such elaborate, ingenious lengths. But greed, rather than necessity, often proves the mother of invention…In any case, if this Mulahey was anything to judge by, they are hardly a threat. I have no doubt the perpetrators will soon be brought to justice."

"So now you're going to Beregost, aren't you?" said Felix. "To find the contact."

"Ah, I see you've been paying attention," said Jaheira.

"And we should come with you."

"As I said, 'the troubles of others'—who knows, perhaps if you follow this road, the cause of your own troubles will become clear. And while you travel with us, you will be safe from whoever wishes you harm – safer, at least.

"I believe that is what Gorion would have wanted," she said just as Khalid returned, carrying a steaming platter of oat cakes.

"They weresh-short of bacon, I'm afraid," he said as he set it down.

"That's alright," said Felix, giving him a weak smile. "I don't think I could hold down bacon, anyway."

"Are you feeling unwell?" Jaheira asked sharply.

"Just a little…." He shook his head. "A little _inside-out_. That's what we used to say. Heh. I don't know. It's nothing."

Imoen frowned. "You think you oughta lie down some more?"

"I'm fine, really, I'm fine."

"If you say so, child," said Jaheira, cocking an eyebrow. "Though if not, you be sure to tell me. It's no weakness."

"I'm fine," he whispered again, and reached for an oat cake – but he stopped his hand, taken by another sudden impulse, and asked Jaheira: "What happened to me?"

"Excuse me; what?"

"Last night, what happened to me? That man. I killed him, didn't I."

Jaheira's face remained calm, but it was possible to mark the slightest effort to keep it calm. "I see nothing unusual in that," she said. "He would have done the same to you."

"But how—how did I do it? I don't remember…I didn't have a weapon. I must have done him with…with my hands…."

"It was a strange ef-fect of the s-spell he cast," said Khalid, almost too quickly. "I've seen it happen once before – it was a Horror spell, but rather than cause you to flee, it c-caused you to go – well, berserk. To put it mildly."

"Just so," said Jaheira, as she shot him what seemed like a grateful look. "A most fitting end. Hoisted by his petard."

"N-naturally, no one blames you, though it was – a somewhat alarming spectacle. But surely no one blames you."

"Oh." Felix looked down, frowning. "I see." Then he smiled, nervous and hopeful, almost unaccountably pleased. "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault, then, was it?"

"My dear," said Jaheira, with a unusually sweet smile. "However _could_ it be?"

* * *

_AN: Now that I have a few reviews, I can do that thing where I respond to them specifically…_

_Treymane: Thanks! I'm finding all these interactions between the main characters a bit hard to pin down, but I do think I have a clear sense of Felix and Imoen and I'm glad that came across._

_Bjrn: I actually used to read at the Attic – I haven't been there in a while, and for some reason it never occurred to me to post there. I'm comfortable here, for now, but maybe I'll check it out._

_R Little Dragon: Well, my intention isn't really to show both sides equally – but there will be occasional glimpses into the enemy camp, because they complement Felix's story, and I enjoy them._

_Snackfiend: Now when I hear the name Felix, I think of Prince Felix Yusupov, the man who killed Rasputin...I'm guessing that's not what it makes you think of._

_Anyway, thanks, all. And those who are reading but haven't reviewed yet, well, but I'd really like to know what you think._

_No spotlight this time, so instead I have a thought: I'm probably not the first to notice this, but it just occurred to me. Doesn't the plot of Baldur's Gate bear more than a passing resemblance to Star Wars?_

_Sarevok: So we meet again, Gorion…_hoo_-ha…_hoo_-ha…_

_PC: Wait, she's my sister?_

_Irenicus: Well, half-sister._

_PC: But I guess I still shouldn't have, uh…_

_Irenicus: Yes, in retrospect that was kind of sick._

_Khalid: W-we're d-d-doomed!_

_Jaheira: Bleep, bloop._

_…I've got to end this author's note before it becomes longer than the chapter._


	5. noisufnoc

They carried him into a room, hefting his body like a carpet, and threw him on the ground before they began to kick him again. He understood this was not a part of the torture; it was simply their hospitality.

He could hear the wet sound as their boots dug into him, but he no longer felt anything. The world had been sliding in and out of focus for the past few hours. He saw shapes but not colors; heard sounds, not voices. At times it seemed as if he were watching it all being done to someone else. His soul had retreated to a place beyond the reach of their boots; that was why they would never break him.

He smiled unconsciously at the thought; one of the hobgoblins, noticing, dealt him a savage kick with his steel-fronted boot, and he coughed up blood.

"Look careful, stupid!" another of the creatures barked. "You kill him, you catch hell!"

"But look!—He _smiles_!" The guard was impotent in his fury. "You _pay_ for that!"

"I'm sssory," the captive slurred, staring at the leather boots of the hobgoblin who had kicked him. "Make an effort…to be sadder…"

The guard bellowed with rage and drew back his foot to deal a probably fatal kick; but at that moment a human, a young man dressed in armor, caught hold of his shoulder and hauled him back.

"He may be a dog," hissed the man, "but he's worth two of you, lickspittle."

His mailed feet stepped into the captive's field of view, then he knelt down. He had a fine, young, cruel face, and a shock of light-colored hair.

"You must forgive my associates. They only understand cruelty; they know nothing of the –_ art_ of interrogation. If I had been charged with your capture, believe me, it would have been conducted with more – _finesse_."

The captive figured him instantly: a cocky young sadist, putting on airs.

"How…tiresome," he muttered. "Run home to your mother…boy…"

The man only laughed.

"Now you see, one of my associates might have broken your head for that comment. But you'll not find me so prey to my lower instincts. I'm here to extract information. And believe me, sooner or later, one way – or another, you _will_ talk."

"Whhhat do you…mean to do? _Pose_ me to death?"

The man laughed again. "You have a fine wit, my friend! I look forward to watching it wither – and die, to replaced with a desperate, mewling subservience, as you lick my boots – and _beg_ me for the opportunity to reveal your secrets."

Now the captive laughed. "I have no secrets," he said.

"Who sent you?"

"Even if…I wanted to…I honestly couldn't be _bothered_ to tell you."

"What were you looking for?"

"What does it _matter_? Life…is so hollow…"

The man stopped. "He's delirious."

"You…are delirious…to imagine that your pitiful life is of any use to any one. Honestly, why do you even _try_…?"

Carelessly, as if only to take a step, the man brought his foot down on the captive's hand. One by one, slowly at first, then with greater frequency, a series of brittle snaps came from under his heel. The fingers twisted up backward, like the legs of a dying insect. The captive made no sound.

"You're a tough one," said the man, removing his foot.

"The only real strength," said the captive, now more coherent, the light returning to his eyes, "is indifference."

"We'll bring a healer in. Then we'll start all over. How does that sound to you?"

"Fine and dandy," said the captive, smiling again. "Like sugar candy."

"And if that doesn't work," the man said, sounding less sure of himself, "then we have – _other_ methods. Less pleasant methods."

"Oh, do tell."

The man hesitated. Then he bent down again, and said in a whisper: "_Nezar_."

For a moment, the sickly smugness left the captive's face. The guard saw that he understood. He withdrew.

"You'll miss me," he said quietly, from the doorway. "You'll miss me."

* * *

Hours later, or days for all he knew, Xan awoke. He was cold and hungry and in pain. All that seemed inconsequential, though, beside his thirst. His body felt like a dried-out husk. He opened his mouth, and could have sworn he heard his tongue scraping inside it. 

They had given him some minor healing; he flexed the hand that had been a pulverized mess the last time he was conscious. They had taken away the wounds, but not the pain. The pain had seeped into his bones.

Time passed indistinctly, and he could not have said when he first realized he wasn't alone.

The smell came first: faint, pleasing, like flowers, but with a bite like fire. Something burning. It filled the entire room. Then he thought he saw a vapor, orange or brown, creeping along the wall in front of him – he blinked; there was nothing. But the smell remained.

He was able to raise his head enough to see the packed-earth floor, marked by boots of his captors, and the walls. They were pure, unbroken natural stone; he guessed he was underground, or in a cave. The light seemed to come from torches. He raised himself higher and saw the teacup.

It was small and neat, made of white porcelain, sitting innocently in the middle of the room. It was full of water. It was the most beautiful object in the world. He blinked, again and again, disbelieving his eyes.

"Drink," said a voice.

That he could see no one in the room was a matter of small importance. His fingers clutched at the teacup, and he sucked desperately. It was more no more than a drop of water, but his relief was immense; he fell back on his stomach, sighing.

"Here in the desert," said the voice, "a man thirsts but there is no water. He hungers but there is no food. Who could turn dust to water; stones to bread? _Selah_: we live in the desert."

"Who are you?" said Xan. He was sure the room was empty.

"Why do you search on the ground for ignorant feet? Look up."

By degrees, enduring each new stab of pain, Xan raised himself on his hands and knees. He brought up his head and found himself face-to-face with something impossible.

A dark-skinned man sat cross-legged, hanging in the air a foot off the ground. There was nothing else remarkable about him: he was small, with a smooth bald head. He wore a colorless robe, and a single clay earring dangled from his left ear, in the shape of a tooth.

"Are you death?" said Xan, bemused.

The floating man laughed without moving. "Not death, but like-death. I may be death. Death may move through me as water moves down a twisting vine." He spoke with a light accent that, once he began to think of him as a human, Xan recognized as Sembian. For the most part he also spoke without inflection, but at moments Xan thought he sounded amused as if in spite of himself.

He looked into the man's face. It was impossible to tell his age. "And how is Sembia this time of year?"

"Why do you ask me that?"

"You are a Sembian, aren't you?"

For the first time, the man displayed an obvious emotion: annoyance. "I am not a Sembian. No man is a Sembian. There is no Sembia, only desert."

"Very well."

"I am a traveler," said the man, his voice flat again. "I am a visitor."

"You are _Nezar_. A mind-breaker."

Now the man smiled. "Some call me such."

"And what do you call yourself?"

"Semaj."

"Well. It was kind of you to give a wretch a drink," said Xan.

There was a silence. He noticed that the empty teacup had vanished.

"Have you come here to learn my secrets? I'm flattered."

Semaj laughed again. "Do you really think me such a fool?"

"Then you wanted the pleasure of my company?"

"_Secrets_." Xan thought Semaj sneered, although his face remained motionless. "You are called Xan. You are a moon elf. You were sent by your clan to look into the movements of bandits. You were captured and brought here."

Xan smiled. "Impressive."

"How are these things secrets? They are understood at once by any man of discerning. _Selah_: there are no secrets to the discerning mind."

"Then have you come to mock me?"

"Understand this: I have as much to do with the fools who beat you as an eagle has to do with an ant. That they beat you shows they are fools."

"But you serve the same master; don't you?"

"I serve no master. I come and go as I like."

" Mm. That must be nice."

"You don't understand me. But don't fear me: that shows you have a discerning mind."

"And there are no secrets from a discerning mind?"

"Precisely. Perhaps you begin to understand."

They said nothing. Xan remained on his hands and knees, looking up at Semaj, and Semaj's face was as still as if he had never spoken.

"You aren't here, are you?" he said slowly. "You're in my mind."

"If I am in your mind, I am here," said Semaj, and circled his left hand in the air. "What difference does it make? Know this: I exist more surely than if I stood in front of you."

"You still haven't said one sensible word. What do you want with me?"

"You are like I: an enchanter. You have studied the subtle arts. You know how to crack the mind like a nutshell."

"Hmm, I never thought of it in precisely those terms."

"Yes; you have been sparing in your practice. Yet perhaps you have sensed…? Perhaps you have _known_ your power? The power of the mind to strip away illusions. To shatter lies. To push back the desert."

"I must admit, the prospect of pushing hardly sounds appealing."

"It is the prospect for the discerning mind," said Semaj. "When you enter the service of my Master, you will know…"

"I thought you said you served no master."

"I serve the Void. I serve the truth of annihilation. For the world was made from dust; to dust will it return. _Selah_!"

Xan was silent.

"The world is a ball of lies. I feel that you know this. If you grasp my hand, I can draw you to higher things. Higher than these fools, even the greater fools they serve—" he circled his hand again, indicating the room—"this entire contemptible prison."

"And all I have to do is sell my soul."

"There is no soul. There is only the mind."

Xan looked away. "Leave me be, you floating sack of rubbish. I've heard enough."

"But _I_ have heard _your_ words. Did you lie when you said that life was hollow? Did you lie when you spoke the truth?"

Xan paused. Then, as if making an unrelated statement: "That's quite a trick you've learned. An invasive mind probe, controlling all five senses – what I feel, hear; how I see you. That water even tasted real. I don't know if it's a spell, or if you've taught yourself some kind of innate witchcraft, like those monks in the mountains…not that they ever use their powers as showily as you. Levitation indeed. But it was difficult, wasn't it."

"Difficult?" Semaj smiled. "I did it all with a thought. What could be simpler? Any child born into this world has the power to move invisible mountains."

"You're a liar. It must have taken you years to get it right. Years and years of awful labor. Even torture. For power like that, you have to sleep on nails.

"Do you serve the Void? I don't believe it for an instant. You _servants_ are all the same; you only serve yourself.

"It's power you're after. Just – a different _sort_ of power. You only like to think you're above that smirking armored fellow… "

"Say what you must," said Semaj. "You know the truth."

"Perhaps. But maybe I don't believe it."

"You don't _believe_ the _truth_? How intriguingly foolish."

The weird smell still burned Xan's nostrils. He curled in on himself, covering his face with his arms. "Get out of my head. Take advantage of my weakness and creep in…like an uninvited guest…"

"Very well. If you will not listen, perhaps you would prefer to rot here."

"You're a charlatan. You don't know despair. You're the same as all the rest of them, scrabbling after your petty goal…"

"Would you rot in this prison? Would you rot in your own mind?"

The smell grew stronger, and he felt the vapor this time, nudging at his hands like the wet noses of dogs.

The man's voice spoke again, fainter now: "I will return."

Xan woke up with a start.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Semaj Ahil-Nezar

Human

Alignment: Unknown

Priest: Level 9 / Enchanter: Level 14

Intelligence: 21

Psionics Level: 3

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Frost Giant

Favorite Weapon: None

Favorite Spell: Greater Malison

_Semaj_ – tooth; _Ahil_ – mind; – _Nezar_; to penetrate, i.e. "the tooth that bites the mind." Although, as 'tooth' is a well-known Sembian euphemism, the name could have another, still more unsettling meaning.

* * *

_AN: "Semaj" was in the game, briefly. The real etymology? Try spelling it backwards._


	6. The Wolves Circle

"…a great old spirit naga, and for the past s-sixty years, it had been guarding the key – belonging to this mage who apparently had a great fondness for riddles. R-really, I suppose most mages do – being so c-clever, you know…"

"Was it real big?" asked Imoen.

Jaheira grimaced. "Enormous. It was surely thirty feet long, and its head was a big as mine."

Imoen's jaw went slack.

"But it was a-actually quite civil," Khalid went on. "It almost sounded like a Waterdavian gentleman – and it s-said to us, 'T-tell us, fleshlingsss—' of course it sort of hissed—'where does a man k-keep his greatest treasure?'"

"What nonsense!" said Jaheira, chuckling. "Under his bed?—Or in a cave underwater, guarded by a great serpent?"

"'I-it depends on the man,' I was about to say," said Khalid, with a bashful smile. "But Gorion—"

"—knew the life of this mage, it seems," said, Jaheira taking up the thread, "and had remembered that as well as a powerful conjurer and abjurer, he was a notorious lecher. And so without any hesitation he answered—"

"—_In the bedroom_!" they said together, and laughed.

"Oh, it was p-priceless. The look on that hoary creature's f-face when someone finally guessed its riddle, j-just like that…"

"It turned out the old goat's greatest treasure was a nymph he had loved; their bones were buried together in the vault…"

Felix attempted a smile.

"I don't get it," said Imoen, squinting.

They had been walking since sunrise, and now the horizon glowed red behind them. As the crow flies, Beregost was within a day's journey of the Friendly Arm Inn, but it was a hard day over the hills and through the woods.

Khalid and Jaheira, unconsciously, had moved at a pace their younger charges could never keep: they looked back often in the morning to see Imoen struggling after them, nearly lost around a bend in the forest trail, leaning on Felix and slowing him as well. After the first mile, she had begun to moan feebly that her legs were giving in – protests that sounded real to Jaheira, but that Felix dismissed with a knowing sigh. He paid her no mind, and by noon she seemed to have forgotten her exhaustion. She walked at a skipping pace, often passing him, on a pair of lean and powerful legs.

They all carried the largest packs Felix had ever set eyes on: leather sacks filled with tentcloth, fishhooks, tallow candles, salted meat, undershirts and trousers, whetstones and rope; bedrolls lashed on top of them, shields, swords and quivers underneath. Khalid carried his skullcap under his arm; Jaheira used her staff as a walking stick.

The fishhooks, candles, meat and other seeming essentials were in fact for use only in emergencies. When they stopped by the roadside for their midday meal, Jaheira repeated her trick of summoning fire on her fingertips to cook a large silver fish that had leapt out of a stream at her command. Later on, when Imoen began to complain of hunger, the druid produced a ripe cluster of purple berries in her hands. All this was done without a thought

"Only a creature with man's ingenuity and gall could ever hope to tax the bounty of nature," she had remarked, when Felix expressed his admiration.

Now, as the houses of Beregost appeared nestled together in the valley below, she turned to Imoen with a smile, saying: "Perhaps when you are older, child."

"I'm older _now_. Almost as old as Felix."

Felix had blushed, and was looking steadily away. She tugged on his arm. "Hey Felix, Felix, tell me what it _means_; I don't get it…"

Instead he pointed ahead of them, saying: "Look at that!"

Night had fallen over the town, and the windows glowed a distant welcome. Beregost was small, no larger than Candlekeep with its two hundred inhabitants, but to Felix it seemed immense.

"We're almost there. We're almost there, aren't we?"

His large, half-eleven eyes lit up. His excitement was childish; he and Imoen had both grown childish in their exhaustion, mental and physical, and they were allowed it. Jaheira smiled indulgently.

"Yes, my child, we have arrived."

* * *

They moved down Beregost's main street. Except for a drunk sitting under the eaves of a building, muttering to himself, they were alone. 

"It must be nearly mid-night," said Felix, wondering.

Imoen yawned: "I'm gettin' a little sleepy…"

"Yes; we have walked many a mile today. And now we rest," said Jaheira, stopping in front of the building that sheltered the drunk. "You have had some taste today of what a life on the road is like. You will find that it also means – perhaps less luxurious accommodations than you have become accustomed to. But the Jovial Juggler is clean, and keeps out the worst scum…"

Looking back, she stopped in surprise at seeing Imoen's disappointed face.

"Though perhaps you expected gold-covered beds and scented sheets?" she said, amused.

"No-no, it's not that! It's just—" Imoen hesitated, and looked down. "I was kinda hoping…we could sleep outside? I never done that before."

Jaheira laughed. "In time, child, in time. Believe me!"

She opened the door, and a warm light and smell flowed out. The noise was cheerful and civilized.

When the others had entered, Felix hesitated. His eyes was caught by the drunk, a surprisingly young man, still with a full head of hair and once-handsome features, muttering vaguely and staring at his hands. The man caught sight of Felix.

"Heyyy brother," he lisped, reaching up one of his shaking hands. "Canya spare a copper? I pay ya back…soon I swears. Fecking sister-in-law…"

Felix reached into his pocket, and, looking away, dropped a silver coin into the man's palm. The man stared at it as if it were a dragon's egg.

"Thanksss, pal!" he managed, through his gaping jaw.

"It's…" muttered Felix, but lost the nerve to finish whatever he had meant to say, and vanished quickly into the inn.

He found himself face-to-face with Khalid, who smiled.

"G-Gorion would be proud of you."

"Oh indeed!" said Jaheira, rolling her eyes. "This _charity_ is unnatural. In the wild, there are wolves to purge the weak and sick…"

Felix remembered the yellow eyes of the wolf who had hounded him at a distance, snarling, until his saber had dropped from his trembling hand, and he shuddered.

"I-I'm sorry."

"Aw, c'mon Jaheira, I think it was sweet," said Imoen.

The small common room was half deserted, and the fire burned low. They settled at a table away from the others, by the wall; and with an apparently thoughtless gesture, Jaheira prodded Felix toward the seat nearest the wall, where he was entirely in shadow.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you," she whispered, as they sat next to each other, "but do try and keep your head low…"

Before he could answer, a loud feminine voice broke the late-night calm: "Hail, travelers! Would you grudge me a seat among you?"

The travelers jumped. The woman had approached them without a sound, and now stood cheerfully by Khalid's elbow. She was short, smooth-skinned and dark, and wore a priest's robes: plain cotton sacking, at odds with her pretty face. The firelight brought out the gloss in her hair, and made her dark, broad lips seem enormous.

"N-n-not at all."

Jaheira, glancing around the room, saw several empty tables. She turned a skeptical eye back on the woman.

"I would have an introduction, if you please, before drawing mead with you."

"Oh, do forgive me!" the woman twittered. "My name is Airen; I'm a priest of Lathander the Morninglord! I was traveling on my pilgrimage don't-you-know and I stopped here for the night and I just can't _stand_ to be alone and you looked like nice people; but I haven't offended you have I?"

"I suppose you may share our table," said Jaheira, cautiously. "This is a public inn."

"Oh you're _much_ to kind!" Fluttering her robes, she fell between Khalid and Imoen. "I've been on the road all day—oh _my_." Her eyes shut as she stretched her arms. "I've never _been_ so tired."

Saying nothing, but keeping one eye on her, Jaheira turned to Khalid: "So as I was saying, love…"

"But you haven't introduced yourselves!" Airen interrupted. "I can't _bear_ not to be introduced to people. You will, please, won't you?"

"Very well," said Jaheira, gritting her teeth. "We are simple travelers. Our names could be of no interest to you. But if you insist, I am called to Jaheira, and my husband is Khalid."

"And what about you, dear child?" said Airen, turning to Imoen. "What's _your_ name?"

Imoen stuck out her tongue. "Elminster."

"Now Imoen, be polite," said Felix. "She means no harm."

Jaheira shot him a warning glance; he failed to notice.

"I can see you're a good sort," he said shyly, smiling at Airen.

"Oh, that's sweet of you! But—" she paused, and squinted at him. "_Sa_-ay. You wouldn't happen to be have the name _Felix_, would you? Felix Lightfoot?"

All the good humor left his face in an instant, and it went vague and stony. "Who wants to know?" he said in a changed voice, and now he noticed Jaheira's urgent glances.

"Oh I hope it's not rude," Airen said quickly, "it's just that—" she lowered her voice. "If you are, you oughta be careful. You see, I – I think somebody may be out to—" he lowered her voice still further—"_to kill you_."

"What makes you say that?" said Jaheira, sharply.

"It's this fellow called Nimbul," she whispered. "I think – I think he's a professional killer. I shared a carriage with him, coming down from the Gate…"

"A carriage?" Jaheira arched an eyebrow. "Then you didn't come this way on foot? Odd that you would be so weary after a mere carriage-ride."

"Oh, oh, I only took the coach as far as the Friendly Arm; after _that_ I walked – but listen to me; he's a terrible man! He has skin like milk, and he carries a magic axe that returns to him after the throws it…"

Felix's chariness had changed to a more natural, wide-eyed alarm. "Is that true! Well I am Felix, and it was kind of you to warn us…"

"Indeed," said Jaheira, clicking her tongue. "I may have heard of this man."

"He may be close now," whispered Airen. "I haven't seen him since we parted ways, but – he's clever. You must be careful."

"We will be, I assure you," Jaheira said firmly. "And I owe you my apology; I misjudged you, journeywoman. You have a good heart."

"It's only what any decent person would have done," Airen insisted.

"Nevertheless. A few coins to help you on your way."

She emptied them into Airen's hand – that, Felix saw, was hard and calloused, unlike her lily-white face – and clasped the hand shut.

"Thank you," Airen whispered. "You are far too kind, really you are."

"Think nothing of it."

"You are a good soul too. Lathander will smile on you…" With another flutter, she got suddenly to her feet. "But I only just remembered I must be on my way—there was a man I had to see in this town. Perhaps we will meet again friends—_do_ take care…"

She offered several clumsy bows, and she was gone as abruptly as she had come.

Felix blinked. "Funny girl. But nice."

"Hmph, funny indeed. I do not entirely trust her," said Jaheira, reaching for her pipe. "Still, we would do well to mind her warning; I have heard of this Nimbul."

"Heh-heh. Nimbul, like _nimble_, right?" said Imoen. "I bet that's not his real name."

"It is not. He comes from an old Waterdavian family, if memory serves…"

"Jaheira?" said Felix, judging her. "What was that about an axe?"

"Don't let it trouble your sleep, child. He won't come near you."

"Well, my dear," said Khalid, with uncharacteristic slyness, "I seem to remember you s-saying something about _wolves_…?"

* * *

Across the room, the dark-robed woman flounced cheerfully back to another table in a corner. A man sat there, nursing a mug of ale, his face hidden by the cowl he wore. Only his mouth was visible as he frowned at her. 

"You are merry today, m'lady," he said.

She laughed quietly as she sat by him. "A good evening to you as well, m'lord"

"You're a changed woman, m'lady." He sipped his bitter with a grimace. "Or I should say, you seem to have changed before my eyes from a woman to a bloody schoolgirl."

"Only to make a diverting chase, m'lord," she said, peering at her nails.

"_Interesting_?" His voice dropped to a hiss. "I thought the Captain told me I wouldn't be working with amateurs. This is work, not sport."

"Well, that's a distinction only some us draw."

"If you were alone, you could go to the devil, but I won't let you put _my_ commission in jeopardy."

"Oh, come, m'lord, don't be such a grouse," she said, shaking his arm. "Look at the boy. Is this our tiger? He's more of a housecat. Rather cute, when it comes to that. But I think he'll be cuter with his throat cut, ear-to-ear."

"In that, I agree wholeheartedly. But do try using those brains of yours on occasion: his companions are armed, and _they_ look seasoned. No man was ever too prudent."

"No _man_ ever knew how to enjoy himself properly. My lord."

"My lady."

They smiled falsely at each other.

* * *

Felix's room stood at the end of a crooked back-corridor on the Jovial Juggler's second floor. It was drafty and overlooked the stables, but with the ache in his bones, he found it hardly mattered. He fell on the bed without removing his clothes. 

The exhaustion was good. For hours, it had kept his mind away from other things.

He lay in the dark, the weak, gray light from the passage showing the cracks between the ceiling planks, and shut his eyes. Immediately he opened them.

He was dead tired, dog-tired, but he realized sleep was impossible. His head was buzzing. He felt like an alert night animal, ready to spring. His fingers, claw-like, clutched the thin sheet.

Looking around, seeing clearly with the faint red tint his eleven heritage gave the world at night, he had an awful sense. The looming shadows and the small, crazily shaped room, with the slant of the ceiling cutting through it, all helped to shape the impression: nothing was real. It should have been a comforting thought after all that had happened – but the knowledge that everything was real, coupled with the impression that it was false and a lie, was too much to stand.

When Imoen tiptoed to the door, she heard his terrified sobs and knew it was more than grief.

The lock of the door had been gouged out long ago, and she pushed through. Felix was curled up, facing the wall, shaking like a man in a fit. When her shadow fell over him, he went still.

"Imoen?" he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

"Couldn't sleep."

"You ought to. We have a long day ahead tomorrow."

"No we don't; we got some things to do in town, remember?" She laughed. "We can stay up if we want to."

He murmured something, and rolled over to face her. His eyes glittered liked coins in the dimness.

"I'm…glad you're here," he said, sounding confused.

"Heh. Of course you are."

"No—it was—never mind. I'm sorry. I must've been drifting off; I felt something weird…you'll stay with me, won't you?"

"Of course." She sat on the bed, near his hunched-in body.

"Thanks…" His eyes passed over the dirty walls, and lingered on the casement. The glass was broken. The shattered image of the moon, trapped in it, looked to him like a lunatic's face.

Imoen laced her hands under her knees and rocked back, looking at the ceiling.

"Y'know, I've seen prettier pigsties."

"Oh, I hardly care. But what about yours; where did they put you?"

"A room by the kitchens. Well it's better'n this. It's _warm_, at least."

"Good. Good."

"So…" She glanced at him. "How're you…holding up?"

He made a faint sound, like laughter. "Not bad, I think. Considering. But you know," he said suddenly, "I just never knew Gorion loved me. I mean I never _realized_ – how much he did. Really like a father. And what he gave up to do it. He did everything. But he never _said_ it. He never said it."

Imoen was silent. Somewhere, in another room, a clock ticked.

"I'm alright," said Felix. "I know he loved me. I didn't know it before. I'll be okay."

"Aw, we'll get that horned bastard," Imoen growled. "I'll put a blade in his guts!"

Felix laughed. "Did he really kill Gorion just because he was good, though. I don't know. There must have been more, more to it. They knew each other; I'm _sure_ they knew each other…or at least Gorion knew why he was after me. Why _was_ he after me?"

Under the sheet, his trembling flank looked like an animal's, and on an impulse Imoen ran her hand over it. "Don't think about it, okay?"

"It matters. I might able to save my life. And yours."

"Khalid and Jaheira'll take care of us, though! They're _tough_. C'mon, there's nothing to worry about."

"I suppose…I suppose you're right. But I'm having bad thoughts again, and…I couldn't tell Jaheira. She wouldn't know…"

"You oughta go to sleep," she said, touching his leg again.

"I thought _you_ couldn't sleep."

"Yeah, well…"

"Now you think you can?"

"Now I think I can."

The draft blew through the room, sawing over the rough-edged furniture. Imoen started to rise.

"Wait," he said, and caught her hand.

"Yeah?"

"Could you – sing me something? Just something short…I want to hear your voice."

"You can hear my voice _now_, silly."

"You know what I mean."

She thought, looking at the fractured window, and it creaked. The cold wind touched her through her pyjamas.

"You shouldn't sleep here," she whispered. "You'll have bad dreams."

"Sing something."

"Alright." She licked her lips. "I don't think you know this one. An Abbess of Lathander taught it to me, who was staying at the Keep. Kind of like the one today," she smiled. Still looking out the window, she began in a low voice: "_A little space – a little time – see what it can do…_"

She glanced at him. He had shut his eyes, and his face relaxed. Encouraged, she went on, keeping a tight hold on the lilting melody:

"_A little faith – peace-of-mind – see what passes through…_

"_The sun will shine on you again – a bell will ring inside your head – and all will be brand-new…_"

She stopped. His breathing had grown slow and regular: he was asleep.

She got up slowly, careful not to wake him.

"Sweet dreams," she said.

Even as the stood, though, she saw his sleeping face contort with anxiety, and his body tensed. She took a step away, and he groaned.

She sat back down. He relaxed, and as she smoothed the hair off his forehead, he began to smile.

"Okay," she said, as if he could hear. "I gotta go now, alright? But I'll see you tomorrow. I'll still be around. G'night."

She tried to stand again, and this time he allowed her.

She went back to her room, laid her aching body on the bed, and closed her eyes. Immediately she opened them.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Neria Swalloweye

Human

Neutral Evil

Priest: Level 6

Deity: Cyric

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Radiant Heart Paladin

Favorite Weapon: Morning Star of Wounding +1

Favorite Spell: Animate Dead

Home City: Athkatla

Bounty on Head in Home City: Three Hundred Gold

* * *

_AN: I really, honestly meant to come up with my own original, archaic-sounding song for Imoen to sing. But Oasis' _A Bell Will Ring_ just fit too well. I apologize. But it could have been worse; I could have used it for an epigraph…_

_Not that this news has any place here whatsoever, but their new album is pretty good – still being outsold by f'ing Coldplay on Amazon, though. I think I accidentally dropped the title into the last chapter somewhere. Anyway, don't mind me._

_R Little Dragon – Damnit, you're right…fixed now. Got to work on my spelling-things-backwards-skills; it crops up more than you'd think._

_Kendris – You know, I never actually _intended_ to make Jaheira's personality different – but I think I see what you mean. Every now and then I'll write a line and think, _that's_ what the in-game Jaheira would have said – and usually I change it. I'm guessing you think she's a bit too nice? It's probably just as well since, while dysfunctional 'rolling zoo'-type parties can be amusing, the characters here have enough problems without being at each other's throats all the time. Though that might change later on…_


	7. Duel: One

_AN: Quick update, I know, but this chapter is contiguous (?) with the last one one; and besides, it practically wrote itself._

* * *

Soon, Imoen drifted into a fitful sleep. The heat from stove came through the wall and gave the room a lulling atmosphere. Rolling in the warm sheets, she could believe she was at Candlekeep again, where the readers smiled at her over their books and the grooms gave her fragments of sugar candy.

She slept for less than an hour. Something happened, a change in the air, and she woke up with a pounding heart.

The room was absolutely quiet and still. There was nothing wrong, and she could not remember a nightmare. She was only awake, wide-eyed and untired; but it was still dark, and she had the sure feeling little time had passed. As she lay still, another certainty came to her: the world was not the same as she had left it.

She got up, the old floorboards creaking under her feet. Faint mutters still came from the common room down the hall. She opened the door, slipped outside, and padded again up the narrow, pitch-dark staircase winding into the upper reaches of the inn. The walls were rough with splinters.

She saw Felix's face in her mind, but was unsure if she wanted comfort, or if for some reason she were going to comfort him.

The lockless door stood partway open. She hadn't left it like that, thought Imoen, as she reached the landing.

Cupping her hands, she whispered: "Felix?"

A rustling came from inside the room; no answer.

"Felix? I can her ya in there. C'mon, stop messing around."

The sound had stopped. It could have been the wind, she thought.

"Say something."

_Please_, she thought.

She took a step forward. The moon had waxed, and a brilliant light now shone through the window, casting a long shadow over the floor. Standing halfway across the landing, peering around the door, she saw it. The end almost reached the threshold. It resembled a human silhouette, but it had no head.

She remembered nights in the drafty stone corridors of Candlekeep. They had both been afraid of the dark, and there had been a page who trotted out an endless ghastly procession of stories, each worse than the last, about cruel kings and their dismembered victims; princesses who changed into hoary beasts; specters that stalked the night, looking or errant children to gobble down like cherries.

Her every instinct demanding otherwise, she stepped into the doorway.

The figure stood over the bed. It had appeared to have no head because it was hunched low, waiting for her to leave. It was draped in familiar cotton robes.

"You," Imoen whispered.

The creature twisted around, and she saw its face. Skin that had seemed prettily fair the day before was sickly-pallid in the moonlight. Although she looked like a woman, she bared her teeth and hissed like a cat.

"Stupid girl! Stupid, stupid girl!"

She became a dark rushing shape, filling the doorway. Imoen's courage fell out through her stomach. She shut her eyes, but instead of pain, she felt a horrible slickness cover her body like a bat's wing. When it passed in an instant, she realized it had only been the robes of the fleeing assassin, brushing against her.

She opened her mouth and screamed for all she was worth.

* * *

Jaheira burst from her room to see a dark blur streak past. Her eleven eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, but she only caught a glimpse of a hooded figure before it vanished down the stairs. She cursed as she pulled on her nightshirt.

"Damn and blast!—Why did we leave him alone? Such a pair of prize fools…"

Behind her, there was a sound like flowing water as Khalid drew his scimitar.

"D-d-do you suppose…?"

"You recognized the girl's voice as I did. He could be slain, for all I know! Butchered in his bed. Some way to repay Gorion…"

The cotton shirt fell around her waist. She grabbed her staff and rushed out, just as Khalid managed to cinch his trouser-belt. He gripped his sword in both hands.

"The bastard fled downstairs," said Jaheira. "Quickly now, down the back way; we'll catch him yet—and whether the boy is alive or dead, he'll pay with his thrice-damned _life_!"

* * *

Neria rushed across the common room, fighting her heavy robes. They clung to her like water, trapping her arms and legs, and she could hear the footsteps closing behind her. _Stupid_. All for concealment, and she had been recognized anyway.

A bar lay across the door. Her hand fell on it and she saw freedom, until she heard a cry at her back.

"Halt, rogue! You are discovered."

Hunched against the door, she turned her head. Khalid and Jaheira, half-dressed and bleary-eyed, clutching their weapons, stood at the other end of the room. Although surprised, Jaheira spoke with the same authority as ever.

Seeing Neria's face, Khalid gasped. "F-f-f-false p-p-priestess! P-pretender!"

Neria spat. "Swine! Idiot!"

"You deceived us to no avail," said Jaheira, holding her staff at the ready.

"No avail? Oh really? I killed the boy. The room is spattered with his blood."

Jaheira's eyes narrowed. "You lie."

"Go see for yourself."

"I won't be tricked so easily."

There was a brief tense silence. Neria's snarl slowly changed to a smile.

"Very well," she said, and straightened.

Calm, ladylike, she removed her robe and held it out, as if for a page to take. She let it drop. Underneath, she was covered in black chainmail that clung to her like a second skin.

Jaheira shuddered. There was something about the spectacle of Neria's body emerging, moth-like, from the garments of chaste devotion, that was unreasonably grotesque.

A morning star hung from her belt: small for a weapon, with a head no larger than an curled fist, but with long wicked spines. She twirled it slowly in one hand.

"You're wrong, you know. I'm no pretender. I really am a priest – but not of the Morning Lord."

She spoke almost sweetly, swinging the morning star and looking from Khalid to Jaheira with her dark, amused eyes.

"I serve a mighty god indeed. And though both he and I prefer subtler methods, he will give me strength to crush you infidels."

"You are alone," said Jaheira. "A woman of any sense would surrender."

"Outnumbered! Oh dear, I believe you're right. Then I suppose we'll have to see to that, won't we?" Her right hand darted to her belt, opened a tiny satchel and reached inside. Khalid brought up his sword. Watching him, smiling obscenely, she removed a handful of fine, ash-gray dust.

Jaheira shut her eyes and began to chant. At the same time, Neria scattered the dust in front of her, screaming in a voice that held no trace of reserve or charm: "_Ia_! Almighty Cyric, hear me! Backstabber, poisoner, help of sororicides, stand by your servant now! _Lamash mararah malkah_!"

Red sparks appeared around Jaheira's circling hands; Khalid stood back, his scimitar held high, waiting on her word.

The floor began to bubble like water where the dust struck it. Two black, oily shapes, like polished stones, slowly rose above its surface. They became two grinning skulls. A moment later, two full-formed skeletons, hunched like apes, their bones blackened, one missing a jawbone, stood in front of Neria. They were motionless; then they jolted to life, twisting their limbs as if exultingly, praising the dark god who had breathed life into their bones. One held a cracked longsword and a rusted, half-crushed buckler; the other swung a two-handed sword.

Khalid turned white. Neria gave a long, slow, musical laugh.

"How now, sister?" she said.

Jaheira finished her chant with a shouted word of power. The scarlet energy warping around her fingers took shape, and a buzzing filled the air: a swarm of hornets as large as a man appeared in front of her, and with a rattle of wings flew straight at Neria.

The priestess's smug look vanished. Covering her head with her arms, she let out a girlish scream. The insects descended on her.

"Now," said Jaheira, smiling at Khalid, "to make short work of these slaves…"

He nodded, swallowed once, and stepped forward. The skeleton's jaws gaped soundlessly. They charged.

* * *

Neria dropped to her knees, screaming and whimpering. The hornets clung to her chainmail at first, stinging uselessly, but soon moved up to cover her head and neck. The pain was terrible; still worse was the buzzing and press of wings. The Black Terror of Athkatla's slum district had a little-known secret: an unnatural dread of insects.

She crushed the hornets with her gauntlets, mashing their bodies into her hair and face; more and more came, and the agony threatened to knock her senseless. She could feel the swelling already twisting her features, bloating her lips, making her blind with puffy welts all around here eyes…

At the thought of her ruined beauty, a jolt of anger momentarily drove away the fear. Groaning, she dove down and ground her face into the floor, obliterating any of the insects that still clung to it. She paused to breath. Before another flight could move up her body and replace the dead, she muttered an incantation.

The sanctuary spell engulfed her body. With her black garb, she became a charcoal blur in the air, and the confused hornets stabbed at nothing. She gave an ugly triumphant laugh and leapt away; the hornets remained in a vaguely human shape around where she had stood.

_Blight of Cyric. _She coughed, moaned, and rubbed the stinging welts on her cheeks. She swore the bloodiest vengeance ever wreaked on the druid. _Dread Lord, aid your servant. Pain and death to her enemies, all in your mighty name. Selah!_

Her eyes darted around the room. She saw the druid and the warrior struggling with her servants – then, with a burst of malicious glee, she made out another figure in the far doorway. The girl. Still in her nightclothes, holding a short bow in her hands – an arrow notched, looking around for her suddenly-vanished target.

* * *

The skeleton facing Khalid was an abler opponent than he had expected. It parried him blow for blow, and although its old sword looked blunt, it cut viciously when it touched his arm.

They fell apart, circling. He could have sworn he saw a malicious intelligence in the face of the idiot skull; it was thinking, planning.

He slashed: it leapt away, rattling its skull as if to mock him. He spit to the side, changed his grip, and began to walk backwards.

The skeleton followed warily. It favored a low stance, common to thugs and brawlers; its sword almost dragged along the floor. Khalid held his sword above his head, ready to swing down suddenly.

Still backing up, he felt a slight pressure on his hip and glanced back to see the edge of the bar. The skeleton, sensing an opening, rushed in; Khalid rushed behind the bar, and its sword struck wood. He swung at its head, but the bar put too great a distance between them.

Jugs of mead and Tethyrian wine stood at his back. He moved slowly down the length of the bar, keeping his sword leveled, and the skeleton matched him step for step. The tips of their blades brushed against each other. Khalid breathed heavily, and realized that his opponent would never tire.

Glancing sideways, he saw the end of the bar ahead, and took a quick lunging step. The skeleton moved as quickly – but Khalid swung first. His sword hissed down and split the black skull in half.

For a moment, the thing still stood erect, its shield half-raised to deflect the blow that had killed it. Khalid exhaled: bones clattered on the floor. He fell back, gasping relief, and clutched the edge of the bar.

* * *

Neria spoke a command word and the sanctuary dissipated. Imoen started back to see the woman materialize in front of her; started back further at the sight of her snarling, boil-ridden face.

"Kill-you-girl," Neria slurred through her bloated lips. "All-your-wretched-fault!"

She brought up her morning star even as Imoen raised her bow. Before she could swing, though, or the girl fire, another figure cut between them. He had rushed down the stairs, holding what looked like a sword in his left hand – but as he raised it, Neria saw it was only a scabbard, leather and brass.

"My _shot_!" yelled Imoen.

Neria smiled. She moved her lips precisely, trying to form coherent words: "You've-got-a-_yard_-of-guts…you-little-eunuch."

"I'll kill you," said Felix, fully as if believed he held a real sword.

Neria swung twice. Felix parried, catching the morning star on his harmless shaft and throwing it back; but after the second time he paused, unable to strike, and Neria lashed out with her left. Her mailed gauntlet caught him in the face. He staggered; the scabbard fell from his hand; Neria seized him by the hair. She drew his head back, forcing her awful face against his, hissing:

"Cut-your-throat-Crush-your-little-balls-Eat-your-stinking-_guts_!"

He grit his teeth to keep from screaming. She bared his white throat, and looked at it as if she meant to sink her teeth in it.

"L-l-leave him alone!" Khalid yelled.

Neria spun around, kicking Felix away, and hefted her morning star.

"Back-for-more? Kill-you-too! Die-die-die!—Die!—_Die_!"

A horrible rage transfigured her already-twisted features, and she ran at Khalid. His swordplay was more than a match for her wild one-handed swings, though, and he drove her away, narrowly missing her neck.

Neria staggered back, gasping, and reached again for the pouch at her belt. This time she brought out an iron dagger, blunt and useless, and holding it screamed out:

"Cyric-hope-of-evildoers! Great-is-my-faith; great-is-my-trust-in-Cyric! Destroy-thine-enemies! _Suhm-tallah_!"

The iron dagger glowed red; then as Khalid stepped in, it all at once took light and became a blazing brand, a sword nearly three feet long. She screeched and swung it; the two blades joined.

The sword of flame guided Neria's hand, giving her the grace of a warrior, and they exchanged a series of desperate blows. Both stood their ground. Just when they were locked, and it seemed as if Khalid with his greater strength would push Neria back, she twisted her blade around and its open flat came down across his knuckles.

He shrieked as his bare flesh sizzled. His hands convulsed, and his sword clattered to the ground.

"_Ha_!" Neria pointed the tip of her weapon at his unprotected throat.

Khalid raised his hands, shutting his eyes. "F-forgive me," he muttered.

"_You…lose_," she choked, her eyes, made small by the boils around them, gleamed with immense satisfaction.

"Kill him and I put a shaft right through you," said a clear voice at Neria's back.

She turned her head, enough to keep Khalid in the corner of her eye. She saw the girl aiming an arrow between her shoulderblades.

"Stupid-wench. Can't-hardly-draw-that-bow."

"I can shoot out an inchworm's eye," said Imoen, but her hands were shaking.

"Try-me—girl."

Imoen loosed the arrow, shutting her eyes. It flew wide, passed Neria by a yard and trembled in the back of a chair.

"_Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!_"—Neria laughed and laughed, like a barking dog, her face contorted beyond all recognition.

Standing by the bar, Felix seized a jug of Berduskan dark wine and threw the contents over her.

Neria hissed and spat. Khalid, looking at him wonderment, thought perhaps the boy still believed the old tale that witches dissolved in water…

Felix grabbed a tankard of bitter black ale and threw it. Just as Neria opened her mouth to curse him, the cleric burst into flames.

The fire traveled had quickly up her sword-arm, swallowing her. Her dark form stood like a cinder with the raging brightness all around, licking her arms and legs, eating her face. The sword had vanished from her hand. Huge, piteous death-screams wracked her as her as she clawed and pounded her body, but to no avail, and she lacked the possession to fall and smother herself. Her chainmail boiled her alive.

Khalid, Felix and Imoen looked on, less in victory than in horror and pity.

Running wildly on unsteady legs, Neria rushed for a window and threw herself against it. She vanishing in an explosion of glass. Outside, her screams went on, growing less violent and more desperate, plaintive, until they ceased.

Felix stared at the broken window with a fevered intensity.

Imoen covered her mouth.

"There! Monster!" Jaheira shouted as she finally bested her opponent, smashing it into the ground.

* * *

They seated Felix at a table, near the fire, and stood around him. He had begun to shake.

"Here, child," said Jaheira, lifting a tankard of mead to his lips. "Drink."

Wrapping her arms around hisshoulders, Imoen squealed: "You _saved_ us! You saved us _all_! Who's the biggest, meanest warrior ever to _walk_ Faerun—"

Felix pretended to sip the mead. "I don't understand," he muttered, glancing at Jaheira. "Why didn't she kill me when she had the chance?"

"No doubt she was preparing a hex that would have slain you without any hope of resurrection – a common device of such dark priests. It was no surprise that she served the death-lord, Cyric. Though fitting, in a way…"

"Fitting? How?" said Felix.

"—and she just went up! _Pow_! _Bam_! Like that! I wish I could've painted a _picture_—"

"Forget it," said Jaheira, with unusual brevity.

"—and then she went, _a-a-a-aieee_!"

Felix stared at the tankard in front of him. "Imoen," he said. "What's the matter with you?"

She stopped, her arms still around his neck. "Huh?"

"It was terrible," he said quietly. "You saw."

"Well, yeah, but…"

She fell back, scratching her head.

Khalid returned, flexing his shoulders, and took a seat beside Jaheira. All present overlooked the fact that between him and his wife, they wore enough clothing to decently cover one person.

"I found the inkeep c-c-cowering in the storeroom," he said, with the faintest smile. "I explained what had h-happened. H-he should sort it out with the other p-patrons…"

"You were marvelous," said Jaheira, and pecked him on the cheek.

"T-t-t-t-thank you,dear."

Felix had removed the lid from the tankard. He sat staring into the dark pool of liquid."It was terrible. It was terrible. It was terrible," he repeated; softly, as if trying to reassure himself.


	8. The Shade's Story: Sister

Day in, day out. As the sun moves from the east to the west, so a child is brought into this world.

Who will hear my words? Who would listen? Who could ever want to hear?

I was reared on milk and loved by my mother and father. We lived in a warm house by the edge of the marketplace. We were not rich. My father sold horses. Every night, he came home smelling of hay. He held me, and my mother sung to me. I was clothed and fed. Day in, day out.

My father swore by the love of Ilmater. The Suffering God demanded sacrifice. We were not rich, but my father gave coins to beggars and tithed each year to the church. He ate only bread on the Sabbath day and kept the holy fasts. Because he was free with what was trivial, he said, he had been blessed with what was dear: his health, my dark-haired, smiling mother, and my little self. Ilmater smiled on us. When I was eight years old, we had another blessing.

They called her Bethsaida. She had yellow hair. She lay in her cradle and my mother sung to her. I sung to her, too, words that came to me straight from the babbling source of all words, words only a child knows; words of pure love. She did not even know these words. She could only smile.

Years passed. Then I grew tall, horse-tall, chimney-tall. My father could no longer lift me; he tousled my hair instead. My mother smiled, her cheeks sour-tight, before she looked away. I no longer had the fat part of the duck. They bought new clothes for me, but not such fine ones, and I stood in the kitchen scrubbing the licks of dark grease from the plates.

Bethsaida walked on her own now, skipping around us, bringing life and light wherever she went. She did not understand when she saw my face drawn out, like a horse's. She could only smile.

My father held Bethsaida, and my mother sung to her. They bought her pretty dresses and gave her the fat part of the duck. Now she forgot me, basking in the light of happier souls, and I was a ghost to her.

Now I heard words I did not like. _Work. Marriage. Dowry._ I grew taller and taller. If I grew as tall as mother, I knew, more love, other delights would come to me; but how could I grow so tall as that in such poor soil? I needed the sun. I needed space to spread my roots.

I lay in the attic hearing the sizzling rain over my head. I looked outside, and in the street I saw a thing. A man in a green shirt lay in the street, asleep. I didn't know why he lay there. In the blinding rain, a carriage came on, the black-cloaked driver hunched low, cursing, lashing the horses. I waited for the green-shirt man to wake at the pounding of hooves. He lay there, breathing peacefully. The carriage came on and its left wheel passed like a soundless snake over his body. Now he didn't breathe. He was broken in half. Red stuff ran out of him in every direction. I waited, but he was still for good.

I had a thought.

Bethsaida followed me, laughing, smiling. _It's a game, _I told her._ Lie there; pretend to be asleep. Then something interesting will happen. It's like being asleep, but you'll have better dreams. You'll see demons and angels. You'll be with Ilmater, our lord. He'll hold you close. He'll give you all the love you need._

I was brilliant. I was tall and brilliant.

She lay down, laughing, trying to close her eyes. So hard for her to keep still; she loved to walk and speak and smile. If she was not sleep-still, I told her, it wouldn't work.

The carriage came on. There was barely a sound under it rolled, rolled past. Then only the mess in the road.

I smiled.

My father locked his door and I heard him moaning. The whole house filled with his moans. I sat on my bed, clutching my knees close to me, and wondered if I had not done the right thing after all.

At Ilmater's shrine, my father offered up Bethsaida for our lord to take. _All that I have is yours, O Lord,_ he said. _Why should you not take back what belongs to you?_ He fell on his knees and moaned and held his shoulders.

No one held me or sung to me. It was quiet and cold in the house.

Then came the day when I heard a heavy weight drop, like a sack of grain, and then a creaking. A rafter creaking. I lay in the attic, looking out the window. The rain fell. Then my father screamed. He started to scream and couldn't stop. I lay on my bed and listened, and kept still. Others found him. Others found him and dragged him off, but they couldn't comfort him. He had lost his mind.

The others. The Friend and Neighbors. I knew them all. They knew me as well. I reached for them but they turned me away, and a board was nailed across the door of the house.

Accursed, they called me.

Devil-spawn.

Demon child.

_We can't prove naught, _they said,_ but we know, you wicked child._

_The gates of all decent folk are shut to you,_ they said. _Where could you ever find solace?_

_The only home for a beast like you is the lowest reach of the abyss,_ they said.

So I lay in the street. It should have been easy, but I was tall, and the drivers had grown more careful. The man lifted me up by the scruff of my neck and cursed me. I fled, my back hunched like an alley cat, and entered the city.

There are dark places in the city. I saw men there who were not men. They were missing eyes, arms, legs, and other things that had made them men. They smiled at me, but not from love. I didn't like them. So I ran on, brushing them all away, wishing them death, death, death, until I came on one who wore a cloak. He alone reached out his hand to me. He alone held me close. And he sung to me.

Ilmater's blood would not cleanse me. Lathander turned his eyes away. Helm looked at me with loathing.

But there was one who did not look away, or judge. There was one who looked on me and smiled.

_My child_, he called me.

_My child._ _I'll hold you close. I'll give you all the love you need._

How could I not praise my lord all the livelong day? How could I not do his will with joyous abandon?

You have forsaken me, O lord, but I cannot forsake you. Even in death, I hold up Cyric's name.

My tongue is numb. I can speak no more.

* * *

_AN: I like this; it's got kind of a sestina vibe. I was traumatized by Tom Lehrer's 'The Irish Ballad' when I was a child, so that's probably where it comes from._

_Rereading Neil Gaiman's _Neverwhere_ is really helping me get in the mood to write this…but is it just me, or are Croup and Vandemar just fancied-up versions of Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd from _Diamonds are Forever?


	9. The Swordseller's Daughter

Mai opened the shop not long after sunrise, even though she would be lucky to see five customers that day. It cost her nothing to sit behind the counter, in the cool shade, imagining what she would do with a few gold coins.

Veran and Yung, swordsellers, had kept their shop in Beregost for nearly ten years. Yung, the Kara-Turan, obtained the swords; Veran and his daughter, Mai, maintained the shop. For weeks now, Yung had been in attendance at a dealer's fair in Sembia. Veran lay in bed with the fever. Mai, sixteen years old, sat in the dusty room surrounded by blades, glancing from time to time at her reflection in the flat of a giant claymore. She tried to imagine her face without the sprawling birthmark eating most of her right cheek.

The door swung in; a man in a cowl entered the shop. The pale skin of his lower jaw was visible under the hood. He moved almost silently, but Mai caught his reflection in the claymore and turned, flashing a smile.

"Hallo! Top o' the morning, stranger."

The man cast a long, doubtful glance around the shop before throwing back his hood. She saw he was an albino. "I need hard steel," he said. "I have a job to do, and it may be a sight more difficult than I'd imagined."

"Then ye came to right place, I daresay! Steel, iron or silver; whatever ye be needin, we can sort ye out."

The man was eyeing her appraisingly. She maintained her smile, but a throwing knife lay close at hand under the counter. She had practiced many times, flicking it into the wood around the door, and had no doubt her aim would be true.

"Just a short blade." He gave a tight smile. "Means of last resort."

"Ah dinnae blame ye. These're treacherous times n' all. Why just the last night, there was these awful screams, and I teaks out the winder and sees this woman flyin right down the street, all afire…" She shuddered. "Must be the Amnish, they thugs from Nashkel, somehow. _Ah_ say. Guards cannae do a thing. We got no Flamin' Fist down here."

"Oh really?" The man seemed uninterested.

"Anyway, point is, ah dinnae blame ye. Body needs to protect hi'self these days. Now fer yer short swords…" She stepped out from behind the counter, making sure to keep a fair distance from the man. "We got summat along the right wall, here."

She gestured. The man stepped up, stroking his chin. "Dangerous perhaps," he muttered, as he looked through the display case. "For those who don't keep their wits about them."

"Adventurer, then?"

"Hmm. Not as such." His eyes lingered on a long, double-bladed dagger. "I suppose you could call me a lawman."

Mia's eyes lit up. "Aw, aye?" She regarded him more warmly. "Well ah think that's grand. Plenty o' folks just mind their ain; it takes a rare soul t' take up a blade fer the common good. _Ah_ say."

"Well," said the man, and smirked. "Call me rare."

"Ye wouldnae be after them that set that poor woman afire, would ye?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Aw aye! She a friend o' yours, then?"

"Friend?" The man chuckled. "More of a clay pigeon, really…"

The doors swung in again. _Busy_, Mia thought, turning to greet the new customers.

Two half-elves entered, dressed like travelers. The elder, bearing the fine features of a Calimshite, wore chainmail; the younger walked with his head down, draped in a black cloak. Even for a half-elf, he was small, and had a child's air of timidity. His only armor seemed to be a pair of leather bracers.

"Well," said the elder one, smiling. "This looks to be a p-pleasant shop, wouldn't you say?"

The boy was silent. The man put an awkward hand on his shoulder. "C-come now. Things could certainly be worse, now, couldn't they? W-we should be glad…"

"I can't stop _thinking_ about it," said the boy.

Mia broke away from her first customer, essaying up to the pair.

"Top o' the morning, gentlefolks! Can ah help ye with aught?"

Taken aback, the boy smiled at her. "N-no thanks," he said quickly, "we're only looking…"

"As a m-matter of fact," said the man, "we were looking for a s-sturdy weapon for my friend here. Perhaps you could be of some assistance…?"

"Be glad to!" She flashed a blinding smile at them both. "Seems our wares 're in dear demand today, aye. Take a step inside and we'll talk bus'ness."

They moved further into the shop, the boy hanging timidly behind the man.

"F-forgive me, miss," said the man, smiling, "but I must confess you s-seem rather young to be the proprietress of such an establishment…"

"Aw, it's me dad's; but ah can tend it well enough. Now then," she said, turning to the boy. "What manner o' blade might ye be lookin for? Summat heavy, to swing with two hands, like?—Or a little skewer for stabbin?"

The boy drew back at her attention, and seemed afraid to answer.

"Well he t-tells me he was trained as a fencer," said the man, "but I suppose – we'll have to look at something a bit more practical than a foil."

"Aw, say no more—but hang on a bit. Got ta check in with th' other gentleman…" she turned; except for the three of them, the shop was empty. She blinked. "B'damned! And I never seen him go!"

"There was another man here?" said the half-elf man, looking around wide-eyed. "I confess I n-never saw him, either."

Mia scratched her head. "An' without so much as a fare-thee-well, too. Eh, no matter. He must've been hard-pressed, like. Told me was a lawman."

"Indeed…" The man was examining a Kara-Turan katana, mounted on antlers. "Felix?" he called. "C-come take a look at this."

Reluctantly, keeping his head down, Felix approached. He even seemed nervous of the sword. He stood in front of it, looking at it for a long time without time without putting a hand on it.

"It's nice," he breathed.

"Have you ever s-seen one of these before?"

"No. Never." He swallowed. "Except in books. But I couldn't. I'd barely lift it, let alone…no."

"Miss?" said the man, over his shoulder. "Could we perhaps see a few good-quality longswords? P-price is no object."

"But certainly! Sit tight, gentlefolks; I'll be with ye anon."

She moved behind the counter, already considering a few of the finer pieces. There were some her father would thank her warmly if she could sell. The trouble was, of course, there were reasons he had trouble moving them. The best blades were not market goods. They were seldom new, seldom reliable, and never cheap. A blade of the finest quality had a history, and a history meant complications.

She hauled a heavy metal locker from underneath the counter. As she leaned on her knees, panting from the strain, she couldn't help but overhear Felix say:

"Why don't you trust me?"

The question seemed to take the man aback; he didn't answer immediately.

Mia went still, listening. She knew it was wrong, but the lure was too strong, too immediate.

"W-what do you mean?" the man finally said, shifting his weight.

To make it sound as if she had a reason for remaining behind the counter, Mia scraped the locker over the floor, still listening intently.

"There's something you're not telling me," said Felix, "and – I don't like it."

There was no force in his accusation, only pleading.

"B-but we have b-been entirely forthright with you," said the man, sincerely. "I am d-deeply sorry if you've come to believe otherwise. You m-must believe that you can trust us…"

"I _want_ to," said the boy, lowering his voice, "but – but I know. I know there's something you're not telling me. Please. I don't know anything, and – I feel like it's going to kill me. I want to know something, just something, anything. Why these people are after me. Where they're coming from. What they want. Anything."

"You really must believe I have no idea," said the man, and paused before saying: "N-no idea why these c-characters are pursuing you. We are as confused – a-and as alarmed, I might add – as you are, my friend."

Mia thought he was telling the truth. After all, he stuttered when he said the simplest things; to lie would surely be a greater strain this his nervous mien could take.

"But you know _something_," said Felix.

This time the man was silent.

Chiding herself, Mia gripped the metal locker by its handles and straightened. "Sorry there, sir! Bit o' trouble wrestling with this 'un, here. Wee lass like meself. But come take a look, eh?" She put down on the counter with a soft crash.

"W-well! This s-seems rather impressive!" Khalid beamed in a way that seemed to Mia endearingly paternal, as if, through his own enthusiasm, he were attempting to enthuse the boy.

Felix stared at the locker. "A spellward trunk. Isn't it?"

"Whew! Sounds fancy to me, lad, but ah suppose that's what it is. Meant to keep a good piece o' steel safe."

"Or to keep us safe from a good piece of steel?" said Felix, with a tentative smile.

It was the first hint of wit she had seen in him, and she laughed inordinately. "Aw, aye! P'raps. But is isnae cursed; don't go thinking that. Just a wee bit – temperamental, like."

"It's got a temper?" said Felix, smiling again.

Mia smiled back, encouragingly. "Well. Let's see if you two get on, then, shall we?" She threw the trunk open. Inside, cushioned by yards of pure white silk, lay a sword that looked like a slab of black ice. A red jewel, darker than ruby, glinted in the pommel.

Khalid gaped. "Gods preserve us! S-surely such a blade was forged by no d-decent hand."

Mia shrugged. "Good; nae good. Depends on the wielder. Blades dinnae kill folks; folks with blades kills folks. _Ah_ say."

For all his shyness, Felix reached almost eagerly into the locker. He hefted the blade. The air seemed to grow colder as he held it.

"_Varscona_," whispered Mia. "Cannae say I know the whole hist'ry, but some religious types was involved. Mighty powerful dweamors. Even _ah_ can feel it, n' ah'm no wizard."

Felix's eye glinted for a moment; then suddenly he shook his head, and looked down.

"Too heavy," he said.

Mia whistled inwardly. _It's evil_, she had expected. _I see things my head, _perhaps. _Ugly things. Make it stop. Take it away._ But never _too heavy_.

Surer than ever, Felix replaced Varscona in the locker. Dealing with these tangible things, steel and silk, he seemed to be in his element.

"It has tae be said," said Mia, "ye're one discriminatin' customer."

As if it had been a compliment, Felix blushed, but then he dared look her in the eye. "W-what else have you got?"

Rolling her eyes back in her head, she thought.

Khalid looked alarmed. He glanced again at the black blade in its locker, and saw that frost had formed on the countertop around it.

Mia's eyes suddenly brightened. "Ah-_ha_," she said, and snapped her fingers. " Now either ye two are the two luckiest pair o' lads on the Sword Coast, or _my_ name isnae Mia DeLain."

Felix brightened. "What is it?"

"Ye ever clapped eyes on a Kara-Turan war sword, son?"

He shook his head. "Not like a _katana_?"

"Nah, we calls those the Kara-Turan two-handers. But these're plenty light, real subtle fer a lad like yerself, and strong. Most fighters this side o' Amn are a bit chary o' them; they like their old-fashioned longsword; but they're a terror in the right hands. And it does just so happen I got a very old, very distinguished blade that's been around the shop for _ages_, that just may suit yer needs."

She stooped down again, and, searching for the box, heard Felix say:

"But – _price no object_?"

Khalid answered in a low voice, though not so low that Mia couldn't hear: "My f-friend, you've – lost a great deal. Surely a d-decent blade is the l-least you deserve."

There was a silence, and Mia felt like a louse for overhearing. She quickly finished her search.

"Here we be." She set a smaller, polished rosewood box on the counter beside Varscona, only then remembering to close the locker. The room grew warmer at once.

"You know I handled a Kara-Turan w-war sword once," the man remarked. "They d-do balance very nicely – though I don't really believe they're so much lighter than our longswords."

"This one," said Mia, opening the box, "is."

Felix looked inside.

The blade was only some two feet long. Its leather scabbard was set with small silver studs, and the pommel was a single piece of bright steel. It lay on a cushion of lavender-colored cloth.

"Double-bladed," Mia explained. "Flat. Thin. Handles like a cloud. Havnae shown it to a customer in ages, ah swear."

Slowly, gently, Felix lifted the sword, and drew it. The blade made hardly a sound as it left the scabbard, but hummed briefly when it was free. It was a ribbon of white-blue light. He swung it, and it moved through the air as if it were made of air.

"Belonged to this monk," Mia went on, "name o' Chung Karr, I think. Daddy told me a little once. Chun Karr, he swore an oath when he made that piece ne'er to kill a man if he could help it. So I guess it's a virgin blade, eh? It's prob'bly never tasted blood, ah means to say."

Felix caught his breath. He passed the sword the sword back and forth in the air, then tossed it from one hand to the other.

"It's beautiful," he said.

Mia liked him. She liked him because he thought nothing of praising the beauty of a sword, sincerely, the way a child would. She smiled. "Ye handle it pretty fair, son, it has tae be said."

Slowly, his eyes fixed on the sword, he moved away from the counter. He took several steps, the sword flowing through the air around him; two partners in a dance. He watched the sword; Mia and the man watched him. Presumably he saw reflected in the sword's white blade what they say reflected plainly on his face: a brilliant, sudden, unrestrained delight.

"You l-like it?" ventured the man.

"Khalid, it's incredible! I've never held anything like it; here, feel!" Enthusiastically, like a boy showing his father the fish he had caught, he held the sword out for the man to take. Khalid hefted it once, and nodded.

"Obviously q-quite heavily enchanted."

Felix seemed disappointed, as if the explanation were too mundane.

"You're p-pleased with it, then?"

"I – yes. Very pleased. Khalid, I'd love to have it, but—"

With an air suggesting that he could get things done when he needed to, Khalid turned to Mia. "The p-price, Miss?"

"O-oh." Mia's eyes rolled back again, as if the figure were so impressive that it took a moment to recall. "Cannae say, exactly. A piece such as that, father almost never sells off the shelf, like. Us'lly makes a private appointment. With a _very_ interested party."

"But excuse me, M-miss, you would not have shown us the b-blade if you were not prepared to sell…?"

She chuckled. "Aw, aye, ah'm just larkin' with ye. But it _will_ be a fair sum, ah can say that."

"F-fair enough," said Khalid, reaching into his sack. "It's c-clearly worth a great deal. Though I do say, I have an a-artifact on my person that may be worth not an inconsiderable sum itself…"

He placed a black morning star on the counter. Mia shuddered; the weapon did not radiate as strong a sense of malice as the longsword in its metal locker, but she was reluctant to touch it.

"A woundin' enchantment, if I know me runes," she said. "Not a weak one, neither."

"Indeed."

She thought a moment, glancing from the sword in Felix's hand to the morning star.

"I d-do understand that this artifact alone could scarcely match the value of—"

"Throw in sixty golders," said Mia, suddenly. "It's yers."

"S-sixty!" Khalid's eyebrows betrayed him. "You m-must be joking."

"Naw. S' a pleasure-n'-privilege tae match such a fine sword to its proper owner, sir. And besides n' all," she whispered, leaning closer, "as ah says, it's been around the shop fer ages. Dunno why; but father'd be well-pleased, ah reckon, if ah could make good of it."

Khalid hesitated. "I don't s-suppose there's, well, a _reason_…" he began.

"You're very kind, miss!" Felix said, grinning from ear to ear. "Khalid, I _have_ sixty gold…"

"No, no," Khalid muttered, waving him away. "R-really, I insist…"

Mia breathed an inward sigh of relief. The trick was to keep from smiling as she accepted the coins, and, kneeling down, stowed the poisonous-looking morning star in the place that had been occupied nearly since the shop's opening by Chung Kae's Walking Stick.

"Thanks n' fortune to the pair o' ye!" she called, waving to their backs. "Helm keep ye, lad!"

As Felix stopped to wave back, she heard Khalid say: "Well I suppose that _was_ rather fortunate. I d-do hope Jaheira and your friend have fared as well…"

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Kara-Turan War Sword +2, "Chung Kae's Walking Stick"

CURSED

Damage: 1d8 +2

THACO+2

Speed Factor: 1

AC Bonus+3 v. melee weapons

Special: No attack penalty when attempting to strike a specific target (sever limbs, etc.)

Special: When a lethal blow is dealt to a sentient creature (intelligence eight or greater), the sword inflicts five points of damage on its wielder. Furthermore, the wielder's sword-arm is incapacitated with pain for one round.

Grandmaster Chung Kae, renowned swordsman and founder of the Order of the Open Hand, swore an oath when he reached the age of sixty never to take another human life. To that end, he commissioned this sword, often referred to as his 'walking stick' because it was so rarely unsheathed. While the blade possess superlative lightness and integrity, the hilt is cursed with an enchantment to ensure that Chung Kae would not forget his vow.

In spite of his advanced age at the time of its construction, the master was forced on more one occasion to wield the sword in his own defense – most notably in response to a challenge from the Calimshite pit-fighting champion Harib Mallah. After a duel lasting nearly four hours, Chung Kae severed his opponent's entire right arm from his body, but is said to have sutured the wound with his mystical powers. Harib later took his own life in shame.

* * *

_AN: Well, that should take care of my writing-silly-accents jones for a couple of chapters at_ least_. Confidentially, I don't know if that's supposed to be Scottish, or what._

_Also, a "Kara-Turan war sword" is basically a Chinese_ Jian_. I'd put in a link to the wikipedia article, but it won't let me._


	10. Tranzig

_AN: In the movie, Steve Buscemi gets the Tranzig role._

* * *

At the other end of Beregost's main street, Feldepost's Inn towered over its neighbors. It was the largest building in town.

Beregost was a waypost, the last bastion of civilization (as northerners saw it) before the Amnish frontier. Its people were tradesman and farmers, but many wealthy travelers passed through it – merchants, royal couriers, sometimes spies – on their way to Nashkel, and Feldepost's was their bastion. Where other inns spread linen, Feldepost's spread silk.

Two women entered its shade, walking closely side-by-side.

"So tell me again about the lotus dens," said Imoen.

Jaheira smiled. "Very well, child. Though I must admit your curiosity has begun to strike me as – unseemly."

"Hey, it's the big, bad world out there!" piped the child. "I gotta be prepared, right?"

"Hmph; I suppose so. In any case, lotus is a vile substance, the final refuge of the despaired and despairing. Its primary function is to do away with one's memory. After inhaling the lotus, a feeling of – deep peace comes over you. Peace and freedom. As if the cares of this world were only a dream…"

"And just how would _you_ know?" said Imoen, smiling.

Jaheira laughed again, and roughly tousled Imoen's hair. "You are a _perfect_ imp, child. How Gorion put up with you, I can scarcely imagine. He must truly have been a changed man…" But at that, she sobered, and went on with her story. "I am half-elven, as you know. I have lived for some time. My youth was long, and contained more than a few indiscretions—"

Imoen cackled.

"—a few indiscretions, of which the fruit is experience. So you would do well to heed my words, for I well know of what I speak."

They reached inn's broad double doors, and Jaheira pushed inside. The common room was dimly lit and smelled faintly and pleasantly of spices. A few sleepy patrons lounged on sofas and in easy chairs, smoking their pipes or reading books, and a few looked up to observe the pair as they went by. They were not dressed like Feldepost's usual clientele.

"The effects of lotus last no more than an hour or so, depending on how much is taken. In any case, once it has passed, the addict requires greater and greater measures to reach the same state. He is eventually reduced to poverty, selling what possessions he has in order to obtain his precious escape. All other concerns become as nothing. After that, death is not far off. The corpses of such people are without exception wracked and desiccated, for in the final stages of addiction, even ordinary sustenance begins to seem like a vanity."

Imoen shivered, but Jaheira thought she saw a certain furtive delight in the child's terror. It was a campfire story to her.

"However, in some cases, said Jaheira, and stopped. They had reached a stairwell. A bouncer, properly dressed but nonetheless bald and muscular, blocked the way.

"Ye paid for a room, then?"

"We have come to see a friend," said Jaheira, with the utmost courtesy. "An old boon-companion of mine, from his wilder days…The name is Tranzig?"

"Sir Tranzig," said the bouncer, politely enough, "didn't say naught about lettin' up visitors. Your name, if ye please?"

"Ah!" said Jaheira, for all the world as if she had forgotten something crucial. "But of course. Miss Silver."

She raised her hand fractionally and something flashed in the palm, enough for the guard to see, before it vanished again into her pocket.

The guard frowned. "Please, Miss. Ye don't really think—"

"Did I say Miss Silver?" said Jaheira, with only the slightest flutter of her eyelashes. "Good gracious me, forgetting my own name! I am Miss _Gold_, of course."

Now the guard's expression grew thoughtful. "And your companion," he said, softly. "She wouldn't happen to be a Miss Gold too, eh?"

"It just so happens," said Jaheira, "she would."

"Ah, then. Miss Gold n' Miss Gold. Right this way. Room seven-twelve."

He gestured them through with an expansive smile. As she passed him, Jaheira's hand made a brief, almost invisible contact with his own.

When they were halfways up the stairs, Imoen snorted.

"Shh," hissed Jaheira, suddenly grave. "This is serious business, now. Don't make me regret I let you tag along."

Imoen made to as if to stitch her lips shut, and walked with a light step just behind Jaheira as they reached the landing. Her eyes glittered.

"Money is a vile substance," Jaheira remarked, "so there is little shame in using it vilely…"

The hall, like the common room, was lit only by the dimmest oil lamps. A lush Berduskan carpet muffled their footsteps. Imoen gave a muted whistle.

"As I was saying," said Jaheira. "I hesitate to tell you this, but best you should hear it from me, rather than some less savory character. There are those who claim that lotus, when used by a fighter of sufficiently hardy constitution, can have other effects…can sharpen reflexes, eliminate pain, allow one to fight tirelessly. I understand that in the land of Kara-Tur, such 'lotus warriors' are not uncommon. However, even if such rumors _are_ true, I cannot imagine that such spell-like effects truly compensate for the lack of awareness and resolve in combat, let alone the final effects…"

She stopped in front of a door. Within, strange creaking noises and a muffled cursing could be heard.

"Room seven-twelve," said Imoen, standing beside her.

Jaheira stared at her. It was a moment before she realized why, and took a slight step back.

"That's better," said Jaheira.

"You really think we can take this guy?" Imoen whispered.

"_Take_, child? Hmm." Jaheira had come without her staff, and her light leather armor was all that suggested she was not defenseless. "I think you will find that not all situations call for force."

"But this guy—"

"Hush. Watch, and you might learn something. Oh, and – do try not to _smile_."

Imoen smiled. "Gotcha."

Jaheira shoved carelessly through the door, snapping a cheap lock.

Her description of Mulahey was still vivid in Imoen's mind, and as the door swung in, she half-expected another brutish half-orc with arms like sides of meat. What they saw instead, in the soft light of a dying fire, was a skinny man in a dust-colored robe, trying to pack a trunk. His arms were buried up to the elbows in a heap of clothes, scrolls, books and trinkets. He froze, as if the room were not his own, and instead he were robbing it.

"W-w-who…" he said, and then he sneezed. He wiped his nose furiously on the front of his robe.

He had a lean face, reminiscent of a fish, unruly hair and a moustache. His eyes were large and furtive. It was, reflected Imoen, as if he given up and not made the slightest effort to appear respectable. He stared at Jaheira and swallowed.

The druid sauntered in, swinging her hips and glancing around carelessly. She dropped onto an armchair, facing the man.

"Good afternoon." She crossed her legs. "And a pleasure to finally meet you, I must say. Do you mind I smoke?"

"Y-yes!" sputtered Tranzig.

Nodding, Jaheira removed her pipe and began to fill it.

"Hey, now! Hey! _Hey_!"

"But you gave permission," said Jaheira, puffing calmly away. "I thought I heard you say _yes_."

"Y-y-you asked me—_urgh_!" He ground his hands into his temples, stamped his feet, and fell on the bed. "Just tell me what the hell you're doing here, and why I shouldn't blast you to dust! I'm a mage, you know."

He sniffed, and dabbed at his nose again.

Imoen moved to stand behind Jaheira, trying to keep her face still. Tranzig started at seeing her.

"A-and who the hell are _you_?"

"Now honestly, sir," said Jaheira, and blew a thin cloud of smoke across the space between them. "Your conduct hardly befits a gentleman. With a mouth like that, you might never have a wife."

The muscles worked in Tranzig's throat. Staring at her with his ferrety eyes, he said slowly: "You know what a spell trigger is? I have one ready. So give me one good reason why I shouldn't loose _three_ Melf's acid arrows right – at – your – throat."

"That's easy. Because you're bluffing," said Jaheira. "You don't have a trigger prepared. You were far too busy preparing to flee this town. Now why, I wonder, could _that_ be…?"

Tranzig sneezed again and cursed, burying his face in robe.

"I could still blow you out your boots," he said.

"Not before I reach out and wring your scrawny neck. Though I may not look it," she said, examining her fingers, "I have quite strong hands. And in the unlikely event you _should_ succeed slaying me, my associate"—Imoen smiled on cue—"is quite handy with a knife."

Tranzig scowled and was silent.

Jaheira uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again, the other underneath. Looking over the bowl of her pipe, she said conversationally: "I believe we have a mutual friend."

"Do tell," said Tranzig bitterly.

"A delightful character by the name of Mulahey…"

"Ah." Tranzig's eyes narrowed. "It's you." Then the tension left his body, and in his sudden calm, he laughed. When he spoke again, it was with amusement. "So _you're_ the ones protecting the spawn, eh?"

Jaheira's eyes flashed, too quickly to conceal. Tranzig's amusement grew.

"You've been some time getting here…I thought maybe they'd done what they'd promised, and gotten rid of you. But you know those business types. Never willing to allocate enough resources to fix the problem – until it's too late."

He reached into his own robe's pocket. Jaheira tensed, but he only removed a pipe, longer and slenderer than her own. He lit it, hunched miserably around the flame.

Imoen looked at Jaheira, but the druid's face was unreadable.

"So you got the best of me," said Tranzig. "Bravo. Congratulations. You want your medal now, or later?" His tobacco was cheap and foul-smelling; Jaheira wrinkled her nose. "I shouldn't have threatened you. You're digging your own grave plenty fast. Stupid wench."

Jaheira was silent, now, and hardly bristled at the insult. She seemed to have achieved the result she wanted: Tranzig was talking, animatedly, without assistance.

"You know," he said, blowing the yellow smoke through his teeth, "I had a friend once, tried to raise a dire wolf cub as a guard dog. He almost got to love the thing as the years went on. He petted it; fed it by hand; played fetch with it. Then when it got big enough, it jumped on him and tore his throat out."

Jaheira was silent. Her pipe smoldered, untouched, in her hand.

"My point is, you're an idiot," said Tranzig.

"Hold your tongue, cur."

"I may be a cur. I may be so low I cloud crawl underneath a slug. But I'm smart enough not to stick my hand in an open fire."

"Baiting me like that, you're not. Need I remind you that I hold your wretched life in my hands?"

Imoen was not afraid, but Jaheira's behavior surprised her. Sharp as she was, she could see that the power in the situation had, in some little sense, drifted away from them. Some word of Tranzig's had destroyed Jaheira mastery. What had it been?

_Spawn_, Imoen thought.

"My apologies," said Tranzig without a hint of remorse.

"What is your master's name?"

"It's worth more than my life to tell you that."

Jaheira leaned forward. Her eyes flashed. "_Tell me_."

Now Tranzig winced, and for a moment Jaheira was again in control. "I can't," he muttered. "They made me swear a geas. Speak it and I burst into flames, and I'm a bit averse to that. You understand."

"You lie."

"Torture me all you want; I don't give a damn. You'll never hear it from _my_ lips."

"Your employers will surely have you killed for your failure. It was _them_ you were fleeing, not us; wasn't it? You may as well throw yourself on my mercy, and hope to whatever god you worship that it holds."

Tranzig barked laughter. "I know that!—But I'm telling you, I can't say the gods-damned name. If I could, believe me, I'd tell you! It would be the only revenge I could get on you. Because," he said, with relish, "if I set you on his trail, he'll tear you to bits."

Jaheira took a breath, and mastered herself. "How much would it cost to get you beyond their reach?"

"That's an easy one," said Tranzig. His pipe was empty, and he tossed it aside. "Three hundred gold."

"Ha! Three _hundred_…" Jaheira snorted. "You take me for a fool."

"You're right; I do! That was my last hope."

"Three hundred gold. You surely jest, swine. To think I would squander such a sum on _your_ worthless hide."

"Oh, I think you will," said Tranzig, grinning now. "Because you're good. And unlike my employers, you have those pesky qualities: mercy, restraint, a conscience. I think three hundred golders is a small price to pay for quieting your conscience. Don't you?"

Jaheira frowned. "One hundred. And not a gold piece over. You sorely tax my patience as matters stand."

"Two hundred, you tight-fisted wench. It can't be much to you."

"A carriage ride to Amn would cost you no more than twenty. You'd squander the rest on ale and whores."

"Oh, yes. And don't forget the lotus. I have a lot that needs forgetting. But that's of little importance, wouldn't you say? What _is_ of importance is that you won't get damned aught from me for a golder less than two hundred.""

"I refuse to be a—_sponsor_ to your vile Amnian debauchery, when you should lie dead at my feet!"

"One hundred and eighty," said Tranzig, reasonably. "That will buy me the carriage ride, an inn room, the favor of the Shadow Thieves – and a night or two with a pretty-enough dockside girl. One without _too_ many blemishes. What do you say?"

Jaheira fumed for some time. Her pipe had long since burned out.

At last she whispered: "Done. Now tell us all that you can."

"Ha, ha! Very well! You've certainly earned it." He stood, and reached into the jumble of his overfilled suitcase. "A map for you," he said, and grinned toothily. He pressed a roll of parchment into Jaheira's hand. "It shows the location of something – _interesting_ at the center of the Cloakwood, not far north of here. Ask for Davaeorn."

"Davaeorn!"

Tranzig chuckled again. "Oh, it goes deep. Deeper than you probably thought. So deep you're like to drown yourself, if your little pup doesn't get you first, ha-ha. I'm only small fry. And on that note, I think it's time I took my leave of you."

Sedately, Jaheira produced her purse and counted out nine heavy twenty-gold coins. The mention of Davaeorn's name seemed to have given her pause.

"Thank you kindly," oozed Tranzig. "Pleasure doing business with you…"

He sneezed.

"You ought to have that looked at," said Jaheira, dryly.

"Damned southern climate," he said, and shook his head. He resumed his futile attempts at forcing the trunk shut.

"So who's this Davaeorn?" Imoen whispered as they descended the stairs.

"A notorious slaver," said Jaheira, shaking her head. "Wanted across the realms. Last seen in Calimport. Following a disgustingly brutal fight against the city guard, he was assumed to be dead. But now it would appear otherwise."

"You really think we can trust that guy?"

"I believe so, yes. To tell the truth, I suspect he was – in a way, _flattered_ that someone cared sufficiently to threaten him. A man of his kind is a burnt-out shell, a husk without a kernel. Likely no one has cared for him all his life."

They went out of the inn in silence. Imoen had other, more urgent questions, questions about spawn and puppies, but she lost the nerve to ask. She followed Jaheira, contenting herself with the knowledge that whatever foes might come, they were unlikely to be a match for her new friend.

* * *

It was evening.

In a room in Feldepost's inn not far from Tranzig's – seven-fourteen, in fact – a pale-skinned man stood at window, looking south. He had bathed recently and stood naked to the waist, a towel knotted around his hips.

For a while he stood there, looking at nothing in particular, thinking nothing in particular. Then he sat at his desk. A small square of parchment already lay there, and he dipped his pen and wrote something quickly, in near-invisible letters, without seeming to care. He stood again. Looking out the window, he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

After a moment, a shape detached itself from the edge of the forest. It was a raven, soaring as if all the winds in Faerun were at its back to answer its masters call.

It reached the sill and Nimbul, smiling, held out his wrist for his familiar to alight. It was through the animal's eyes that he had seen Neria's downfall the night before.

"Hallo, Able," he muttered, stroking it under the chin. "Any news?"

The raven cawed. Nimbul laughed, as if at a joke he had heard many times over.

"Here," he said, lifting the parchment from the desk. He fastened it to the raven's leg with a piece of silver string. "Wear it proudly."

The raven cawed again, now sounding questioning.

"In the unlikely event of my death, you're to take that to Angelo. That is, if the dweamor doesn't fade." He smiled. "I'm not entirely sure how these things work."

The raven cawed a third time; plaintive, now.

"I said _unlikely_, didn't I?—Off with you."

He twitched his wrist and the bird was gone, as sure and quick as he considered himself to be.

_Mask_, he mouthed. _Stand by me._

He sat at the desk again, and his writing-hand lay limp, palm-upward. He stared at it, thinking it looked rather like a dead spider.

Far away across the forest, the raven made for its roost, bearing the message that read:

_Greetings from Hell. Looks like you misjudged. But no worries._

_From the look of things, you'll be joining me pretty soon, old man._

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

David "Nimbul" Nimmel-Bullard II

Human

Neutral Evil

Bard: Level 8

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Mistuko Sonno, the Red Wolf

Favorite Weapon: Throwing Axe +1

Favorite Spell: Charm Person

Sings: Never


	11. End Part One

**Part One: Beregost**

_End._

**Part Two: Cloakwood**

_Beginning._

AN: So, that's it for part one! Much thanks to everyone who's stayed with me so far. Part two should be a lot of fun. And death.

I wanted to throw in some kind of extra, though, to commemorate having gotten this far, and looking back at my note for chapter ten gave me an idea. So before we follow our story into Cloakwood, let's _really_ take a look behind the scenes and have a word with some of the men and women working to bring you _Fury_!

* * *

Incanto (writer): "Everything's going really great! I couldn't hope for better. Except I kind of wanted Dennis Hopper for the Angelo role. His agent said he'd show up; I guess he just had better things to do." 

Quentin Tarantino (director): "It was pretty tough going at first, alright? I mean, I took a look at the script, and I went back to Incanto to make sure there wasn't some mistake, and he said that's right, they can't say _fuck_; it's an anachronism. And I was like wait, you've gotta be fucking kidding me, alright? How am I supposed to work with this? But then we looked up some archaic curse words, alright, and things started moving, and I'm pretty happy with it so far."

Yuen Woo-Ping (fight coordinator): "The battle with Neria was fine, I guess. But they wouldn't listen to me. I said, why not put them all on wires and have them flying around? It's more exciting that way. I mean, come on. _Wires_."

Michael Keaton (Angelo): "I'm very proud of my work as Angelo Dosan. Playing a villain is a nice change of pace for me…Dennis Hopper came to try out, you know. I waited until he went to use the restroom and pushed a chair in front of the door. I got the part. He's uh, still there as far as I know."

Cillian Murphy (Felix): "Orlando _who_? Johnny _who_? Ha! Ha! Don't make me laugh."

Natalie Portman (Imoen): "Working with Cillian? Oh it's been fun, I admit, but I keep getting these death threats. Badly-worded death threats. Sometimes with 'i's dotted with hearts? And numbers instead of letters? Yeah, it's a bit strange."

Carrie-Anne Moss (Neria): "I do all my own stunts now.

"Yeah, the doctors say most of the bandages should come off by 2009."

Jonathan Rhys Meyers (Nimbul): "What was _really_ in that pipe? It wasn't dry ice, man. Heh-heh. 'Canto's good to us."

Jada Pinkett-Smith (Jaheira): "I enjoy my scenes with Adrien; he's a great dramatic actor. Only it's a bit awkward offscreen. He keeps muttering something about a 'downward spiral?' And then he needs a back rub."

Adrien Brody (Khalid): "From _The Pianist_ – to _The Village_ – to _this_. Sigh."

Steve Buscemi (Tranzig): "How come I never get cast as a good guy? Or at least a not-so-bad guy? I'd settle for that. Like maybe a lawyer or something? C'mon."

Denzel Washington (Sarevok): "'_I_ do not fear death! Do _you_?'—hem How was that? I think it was better that time."

Incanto: "Uh, can we get a bit more evil, Denzel?"

Denzel Washington: "_More_ evil? I think that's about as much evil as I can give you. Hmm. What's my motivation here?"

Incanto: "Well, your foster-father had your foster-mother killed, and, uh, you're the son of an evil dead god."

Denzel: "Ah, yes."

Tim Roth (Xan): "I'm happy so far. I just wish they'd keep that bloody screenwriter off the set. If I have to hear one more time how 'cool' my accent is, somebody gets a punch, I swear."

Daveigh Chase (young Neria): "Hee-hee, _The Ring_ gave Incanto nightmares. One time I waited in his trailer with the TV on and my hair down over my face. It took the paramedics three jump-starts to revive him. Hee-hee."

Liam Gallagher (musical consultant): "This's the best f fic in the world, man, and anyone who says otherwise gets a punch!"

Dennis Hopper (trapped in the restroom): "_Halp_!"


	12. Good News

**Warning: disturbing content.** I generally don't have a good sense of what other people might find disturbing, but in this case, I think it's a pretty safe bet.

* * *

Fetch and his sister Carry were fortunate. They had been brought to the Hole a week ago, along with their father; but while their father labored on the upper levels, crawling into their nook each night reeking of brimstone, Fetch and Carry had been brought down to the Master's quarters to serve him personally.

The Master had been at his writing-desk when the children were brought before him. He had favored them with briefest glance, and although he was only ten years of age, Fetch had been clever enough to read a great deal from that glance. He had recognized that the Master cared not a fig for either of them, and that it was not the first time children had been presented to him. There had been others before. And although he knew such speculation served no purpose, Fetch could not help but wonder what had become of the ones before.

With an absent gesture, the Master had pronounced that he would keep the girl; his apprentice, Stephan, could have the boy. So Fetch had been carried away and handed over to Master Stephan. Stephan was a nervous, pale-skinned young man, not unlike a slave himself, who dreaded the master more than anything, and Fetch had counted his fortune doubled. Although Stephan kicked him when he was slow, he could not kick hard.

So it had been all the past week. Then one day, perhaps one night – there was no telling the difference – the Master sent orders that Fetch was to appear before him again.

Although he had only glimpsed it for a moment, Fetch doubted he would ever forget the Master's face. It was hardly a face at all: naturally brutal features, a hatchet nose and an enormous cleft chin, were mashed and concealed by drifts of lumpy-white scar tissue. The nose had been smashed flat and turned to one side; one cheek bulged out while the other had sunken in. There was no hair on the crown of the Master's head, or on his chin, and even his eyebrows seemed to have been seared away. His head was a half-formed lump of meat, and his eyes glinted out of it amusedly – as if, Fetch had thought, to say: _That's right. I'm still here._

Now Fetch hurried him into the Master's study again, and the face was as horrible as Fetch recalled. This time, though, the Master seemed to be smiling. Half of his mouth was frozen, but the other was pulled up at a manic angle. Fetch felt a flutter of hope.

The Master wore heavy black mage's robes. He sat on his throne-like chair with his hands on his knees, while nearby, smiling feebly, Fetch's sister kneeled on the earthen floor.

"Carry!" he cried, and tried to rush forward; Stephan held him back. The Master laughed.

"Leave the boy go, Stoop"—the Master's name for Stephan, although Stephan, at least, was fortunate enough to know his true name. The Master's voice was not as cracked as his face, but it was still low and rough.

Stephan released Fetch at once, as if he had been burned. "M-master."

Fetch ran forward, and Carry, raising herself off the ground, opened her arms to receive him.

By Fetch's reckoning, she was twelve years of age; two years his elder. She had not grown as thin as father, but her face still had a worried, pinched look, and she did not smile quite so broadly as he did.

"Hi, you," she whispered in his ear.

"Carry—" Fetch stopped himself, but darted a sideways glance at the throne. The Master, still appearing to smile, watched them complacently. Fetch knew his life – and his sister's also – was measured by the length of that smile.

Breaking away from Carry, he prostrated himself at the Master's feat.

"Thank you for caring for me," he said in slow, painstakingly correct speech. "Thank you for caring for my sister. You are very good to us – Master."

The Master laughed uproariously, as if Fetch had told a good joke. Fetch saw that the frozen half of his mouth could not open when he laughed.

"What a courtly creature it is, ha ha!—You may leave us, Stoop. I will call when I have need of your worthless hide again."

"Y-yes, Master. Gracious Master…"

Stephan scuttled backwards out of the room, bowing repeatedly.

The Master's study was lit by a single enchanted lamp, and each of them cast a large shadow on its walls. The shadow of the Master, with his bald head and heaped robes, resembled a vast and terrible mountain. He leaned forward.

"What's your name, eh? What do they call you?"

The Master's manner of speaking was rough, a commoner's, and Fetch knew with relief that there was no cause for pageantry.

"Master Khosann calls me Fetch, sir."

"Fetch, eh? Not a very nice name for a boy. Not very pretty." The Master pinched his mouth up. "You have a new name now. Your new name is Choke."

"Choke, sir?"

"Choke." The Master looked at Fetch in a hazy way for a moment, then shook his head. "You don't like your new name?"

"Oh, no, I likes I just fine, sir."

"Aye? And don't you want to know my name, then?"

"I-if it pleases sir to tell me." Fetch remained prostrated, looking at the lower slopes of the Master's robes.

"My name is Davaeorn. Eh? What do you think of that?"

"I-it's a very good name, sir," said Fetch, unsurely.

Master Davaeorn laughed again. "You're a good boy, Choke, you are. Ha! Have a bit of sweet, eh?"

He produced a fragment something amber-colored from the folds of his robe.

"N-no thank you, sir…"

"Nonsense!" barked Davaeorn. "All boys like sweets. Here; take it."

Fetch accepted the candy with a shaking hand. He put it in his mouth, but he was too overcome to recognize it taste, or if it was sweet at all. He did not dare look at Carry, or anywhere except the Master's feet.

After a moment, as if to give Fetch time to enjoy his sweet, Davaeorn said: "Rise."

Fetch stood slowly, keeping his head lowered. Davaeorn glanced from one child to the other, then, smiling again, clapped his hands.

"Well! We are going to have a bit of fun together. Would you like that, Choke?"

"Very much, sir."

"Eh? What about you, Swallow?"

Fetch looked around, blinking, before he realized Davaeorn had given his sister another name as well.

"Y-yes, sir," Carry muttered. "I'd very m-much like that, sir."

Her voice was as thin and pale as water. Fetch shot her a worried glance, but her eyes were fixed on the floor.

"A bit of fun," Davaeorn repeated, rubbing his hands together. He stood. Fetch saw that he was tall, his head nearly brushing the chamber's low ceiling, and his hands were large and fleshy. He reached to his left, opening a cabinet.

"Now what did Stoop put you up to eh, Choke? Fetch?" he said idly, as he rifled inside the cabinet.

"Well, I – I fetched things, sir."

"And did he beat you, then?"

"S-sometimes," said Fetch.

Davaeorn's eye glinted. "Badly?"

Fetch had a sudden impulse to somehow protect Stephan. He was unsure, though, what answer would suffice. "Y-yes," he finally decided. "Badly."

"Hmph. Good. A boy ought to learn his manners. But don't you be worried, Choke," he said, attempting to smile again, "Davaeorn isn't going to beat you. He'll even give you a little treat if you do as he says."

The way that he pronounced the word _treat_ somehow sent a shudder down Fetch's back.

"As sir commands," he said dully. He risked another glance and Carry and she nodded, commending him.

"Good! Good, good – ah, let's see. Here we are, then." There was a rattle of glass as Davaeorn yanked something out of the cabinet. He shook it front of Fetch's face, if it were a bauble meant to amuse a younger child. "Eh? Eh?"

It was a leather collar. A string hung down from the place where it was joined, swinging to and fro as Davaeorn shook it.

Remembering his new name, Fetch despaired, and knew his death was imminent. He waited for the Master to fasten the collar around his neck. The Master's smiles meant nothing; Fetch was to die for his amusement…

"Now," said Davaeorn, pressing the collar into Fetch's hand, "put that around my neck. That's a good boy."

"…Master?"

"Ha! Ha, ha. And be quick about it." He sat back down, settling himself with a massive sigh, and waited.

Fetch remained paralyzed, fingering the collar. It's a trap, he thought, but he looked to Carry, who nodded. Fetch saw she was paler than ever. Swallowing, he moved behind the throne and fastened the collar around Davaeorn's neck. The Master gave a contented sigh. "Good boy. Now take that string in your hand."

"I have it, Master."

"Good boy! Now choke me, Choke."

"M-Master?"

"Ha, ha! Pull on it a little."

Fetch obeyed, and he saw the collar tighten; the thick, ruddy neck turned ruddier around it. Davaeorn gave a small pleased grunt. "That's right," he said hoarsely. "Little by little. Easy."

Slowly, bracing his hand on the back of the throne, Fetch pulled.

"I'll put up my hand for you to stop," said Davaeorn, and a moment later put up his hand. Fetch released the string. "I didn't say let go of it!—Pick it back up. That's it, boy. Just keep a hold on it and pull when I tell you."

"Y-yes, sir. Right, sir."

"Ha, good. Now." Leaning back, with his shut, Davaeorn shifted his robes. "Swallow?"

"Master?"

"Proceed."

Hunched behind the throne with the string in his hands, Fetch could not see what was happening. He heard a hollow noise; then Davaeorn groaned and stiffened.

"_More_!" he said, in a voice grown high and thin. "Come on. Put your _back_ into it…" The hollow noise grew louder; Davaeorn groaned again. "Heh. Heh. That's right…That's a good girl. Who's a good girl. You are; you're a good girl; you're _my_ girl…"

He raised his hand so that Fetch could see, and made a quick, sharp gesture. Fetch winced and tightened the collar.

"Ah—_ah_! Yes…" Davaeorn's voice had faded to a whisper. "Ye-es. You know me. You know what I want. Now give it to me. That's right."

Fetch could still see nothing, and didn't dare to look. Without fully knowing why, then, he was possessed with a sudden blistering hatred. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew that Davaeorn was hurting his sister. He knew than Davaeorn's kindness was a worse thing than any cruelty either of them had ever known.

He braced his foot against the back of the throne and pulled with all his might.

Carry gasped in surprise; Davaeorn leapt up in his seat, making a feeble hissing sound. Fetch dropped to lower the angle of the string and went on pulling. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before the awfulness was over…

Then Davaeorn snapped his fingers and the string broke through with a sizzle.

"_Ha_!" he gasped, rubbing his throat. "Not such a good boy after all, eh? Eh?" He rounded on Fetch, his black robes billowing out like a storm cloud; Carry shrieked: "_No_! Master don't, please, take me instead…"

He waved his hand and Fetch saw his sister's body blown across the chamber as if it weighed nothing. She struck the wall, fell, and didn't move.

He looked up at the Master, and somehow at that moment his terror dissolved. He was no longer afraid of death. He no longer felt anything except a dull, aching confusion that the world had turned out to be such a place as this.

Davaeorn's arm shot out, seeming much longer than it should have been. He gripped Fetch by the collar and pulled off his feet. The Master was strong for a mage, Fetch reflected, dazedly.

Now Davaeorn smiled in earnest. "No," he repeated, softly. "Not a good boy. Not a very good boy at all. Thought you were clever, eh, Choke? Had a little idea? Thought you could put one over on old Davaeorn, eh? Ha! Ha! You're a quick little bad boy, aren't you. But you don't know"—he brought his shapeless face close to Fetch's, grinning, revealing a mouth that gleamed with false gold and silver teeth. "You're not the first quick little bad boy who thought he could put one over on old Davaeorn. Oh, no. You're not the first. You're only the last."

He reached up and tore the collar away, then flexed his hand. Lightning flashed around it, over the palm and between the curled fingers, and the air began to smell like burning.

Across the room, Carry had gotten to her feet. Fetch looked dully into her tear-streaked face, wanting to communicate a simple thought: _Don't worry. We never really had a chance._

"Oh, I don't want to do this," Davaeorn muttered, drawing back his sizzling hand. "But you just couldn't be a good boy—"

There was a noise like tearing metal. Davaeorn started, turned, and let Fetch drop. Carry gave a moan of relief.

The noise had come from a standing mirror in the corner of the room. Fetch regarded it, wide-eyed; Carry, apparently, had seen it at work before. She crawled across the floor toward him and quickly had him in her arms, muttering: "Stupid, stupid; sweet, stupid…"

Fetch looked at the mirror over her shoulder. Its surface had gone opaque, and was rippling and flexing like a pool of water.

Davaeorn grunted. He straightened his robes with a careless gesture and approached the mirror, rapping on it with the back of his hand.

"Eh? Speak."

The flexing image immediately sharpened, but the figure the mirror reflected was not Davaeorn. Fetch saw it clearly. It was a slender, pale man, dressed in leather, a hood attached to his jerkin covering his face. Wisps of long dark hair hung down from the hood.

"Ah-ha! Heh, hem." Davaeorn was pleased, and if he had even felt the slightest anger a moment ago, he had forgotten it. Fetch found that almost as astonishing as the magic mirror. He was still more shocked when Davaeorn bowed. "Ah, Captain, my Captain. Ha-hem. This _is_ a surprise."

Fetch thought the figure in the mirror smiled. "It's been some time, Davaeorn."

"Ha! Indeed! Too busy with your _proper_ dealings, eh?—And aren't you taking a bit of a risk, showing up like this? Gusty-gusty. Don't care what anyone says; you always were a though one. Wouldn't know it to look at you…" He trailed off, still looking with pleased amazement at the man in the mirror. Then he extended his hand. "Well come on; come on through."

Both Fetch and Carry gaped as Davaeorn plunged his hand into the mirror's surface. He joined hands with the slender, pale man, who was the next moment standing in the room, as naturally as if he had just passed through the door.

Now that he had come so suddenly nearer, Fetch got a better look at him. His leather jerkin had a formal, tailored look, like a uniform, and bore a insignia on the left sleeve of a burning mailed fist. The hood was its only unorthodox feature. A cavalry saber hung from the man's belt.

Davaeorn laughed, gripping the man's hand.

"What a sight you are! So handsome in your officer's getup, eh?"

The man laughed as well, though much less heartily. "Yes…" He said vaguely. He had a slow, drawling voice, and his eyes circled the room like lazy flies. "Charming setup you've got down here."

"Ha, ha! Couldn't ask for more, couldn't ask for more."

The man took several idle steps, stopping in front of Fetch. Fetch stared at the man's black riding boots.

"Hullo," said the man. "What's his name, then?"

Davaeorn started, as if he had forgotten the boy's existence. "Eh?—Oh, that one's Fetch. He's a bad boy. Doesn't do what he's told. Might have to get rid of him."

"That so?" Bending over, the man ruffled Fetch's hair. "Are you a bad boy, Fetch?" he said quietly.

There was no malice in his voice. Amazed, Fetch dared to look up. He could see the man's eyes inside his hood: they were gray, cold and amused.

"Y-yes, sir," he managed.

"Oh, really now. I think Davaeorn is telling stories. You look like nice enough to me. Isn't that right, Fetch?"

Fetch didn't dare to answer.

"No matter," said Davaeorn, waving his hands. "Useless, the lot of them…I don't suppose you're here to tell me I'm to be provided with some _fresh_ hands for once, eh?"

"That's not my line, Davaeorn," said the man, walking away from Fetch. "I honestly don't give a damn. I'm here to give you a warning, and assistance, if I can."

"I'm honored," said Davaeorn, guardedly, still standing by the mirror. He was a good deal taller than the newcomer. "I see Rieltar hasn't forgotten me, even if he does refuse to come in person."

"Oh, Rieltar still counts you among his _most_ valued associates. But I'm here of my own volition. You see, we each have our part to do, and some time ago – another man in the organization set me a little task."

Davaeorn's eyes flashed greedily. "Who?"

"Now, now, ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. This man, whose name is hardly of any importance, assigned me to see that a certain individual was done away with before he could become a threat to our operations. Unlike you, _I _asked no questions. I haven't the slightest idea who this individual is, or what sort of threat he may pose – but I do know that he's proven to be quite a lot more trouble than any of us anticipated."

Davaeorn listened carefully, but as the man neared the end of his speech, his gaze strayed to fetch and carry. "Just a moment, Captain; I'll throw out these children…"

"Oh, let them stay," said Captain, with a wave of his pale hand. He smiled at Fetch. "I'm rather fond of children."

Fetch smiled desperately back.

"Fah! Well, no matter. I suppose we have nothing to fear. Continue."

"Yes; as I was saying. At the present moment this dangerous individual, along with several equally dangerous companions, is on his way here."

Davaeorn's eyes bulged. "_What_!"

"It would seem," said Angelo, leaning wearily against the wall, "that Friend Tranzig is a good deal quicker than you had estimated. Not only did he disobey orders and desert his post – gods only know where he might be now – he apparently turned traitor, and revealed the location of this site to our enemies. Honestly, I hardly blame him. It was the only intelligent thing to do."

"Ah-heh. And by our enemies, you mean the _individual_ in question, eh?"

"Precisely." Angelo smiled. "And I thought you should know."

"So," said Davaeorn, kneading his crooked chin, "they're on their way here?—And measures have been taken to stop them?"

Angelo's face turned somewhat serious. "An old friend of mine – trustworthy, I assure you – has been on their trail for some time now. He had an associate, another capable assassin, who's dead now. I'm not sure how it happened."

"Dead!" Davaeorn cackled. "Dead as a doornail! Ha, ha; idiots, chasing their own deaths. Better to be safe, down here…"

"But that's precisely my point, my friend. You may not be safe much longer."

Davaeorn smoldered. "You mean to say you think a couple of half-wit adventurers could do _me_ in?"

"I'm only suggesting—"

"_Ha_! _Ha_!" He turned to look Angelo dead in the eye. "Do you know how I came to be here? Eh? Do you know why nobody thought to look for me after that Calimshite business?"

Fetch shuddered. For a moment, the man in the black robes seemed to have little relation to the man who had held him up and leered at him, as if one had replaced the other. Now, though, in the Master's eyes and his voice, he saw a glimpse of his familiar Master.

"No," said Angelo, calmly. "I never was very clear on those particulars."

"Ah, ha!—Now tell me, Captain. You ever been struck by Dolorous Decay?"

Angelo shook his head.

"Ever had your nose smashed in by the haft of a pike? Eh?"

"Can't say I have."

"You ever floated through twelve miles of sewage before you washed out to sea? Facedown? Your guts sticking out underneath you like a jellyfish? Eh?"

Smiling, Angelo shook his head. "In that department," he said gently, "you have me trumped, my friend."

"Humph." Davaeorn stared at him triumphantly. "Then _don't_ presume to tell me what _I _ought to be afraid of." He gathered his robes around him and rushed back across the room, stepping within an inch of Fetch and Carry. He hauled an old iron cauldron away the wall. "Come," he said. "Let us combine our powers of augury, then. We'll see everything there is to know about this _individual_ of yours."

Angelo moved to join him. Fetch made a hissing noise, tugged on Carry's sleeve and pointed at the exit. She shook her head.

Davaeorn was murmuring an incantation. From pouches underneath his robes he tossed handfuls of white and gold powder into the empty cauldron, which began to emit a faint blue smoke. Angelo joined him in his chant.

"_We can't_," Carry whispered. "_We'd never make it_."

"_But_—"

Then she spoke one word—"_father_"—and Fetch was still.

The smoke rising from the cauldron turned a dark shade of red. Davaeorn waved his hands, dispersing it, then frowned at Angelo. "Wait. A price must be paid."

Angelo drew up his sleeve. "I understand."

"Ah, Captain! I'm surprised at you. Would you presume…?"

"Pain is a matter of indifference to me."

Smiling, Davaeorn produced a small silver dagger and held it out across the cauldron. Angelo drew it quickly across his forearm. A startling gout of blood burst out, then just as quickly, he passed the dagger back the other way, and the wound sealed up.

They were both accomplished mages, Fetch thought; they handled magic the way a mine-slave handled a pickaxe.

The smoke died down. Davaeorn peered hungrily into the cauldron; Angelo hung back, more discreet, but still observing.

"They come quickly…" whispered Davaeorn, his tongue flickering over his withered lower lip. "They come over water. How? They have built a raft. They have begged the favor of the shadow druids and felled trees, and they have built a raft. Perhaps your friend has made his presence known? He will be hard-pressed to stage an ambush now."

"It would appear so," said Angelo, uncomfortably.

"They will be here on the morrow if they are not stopped. There are four—something strange about one of them. Two of them—familiar. No; I can see no more."

He turned, stalking away, and Angelo followed him.

"Do you have faith in this _friend_ of yours, Captain?"

Angelo hesitated. "I hardly have faith in anything, Davaeorn."

"Then I should prepare a welcome for them."

"I would suggest as much."

"Hmm. Hmm. I will enjoy this. Yes, I think I will enjoy this." He turned back to Angelo with a sudden smile. "Thank you, my friend; you've given me quite the little opportunity! Only, it's so sad I'll have to steal your glory by doing your job. I hope your little superior won't be too upset, heh, heh."

"He told me to take care of it, one way or another. I consider this _another_."

"Ha, ha!—Good, good; excellent. A most profitable visit."

They shook hands. Angelo approached the mirror again and knocked three times on the surface; it began to shimmer.

"Take care, you heartless bastard. Oh, and – Fetch?"

"S-sir?"

"Little something for you." Angelo rummaged absently in his pockets, then produced a bright gold coin. Fetch's eyes grew wider than coin. Angelo winked. "Don't let your Master get that away from you," he said, flipping it into the air, "he's a greedy son of a troll, make no mistake…But do what he says and you'll get on alright. Buy yourself a little something…" His drifted over Carry. "Or perhaps something for your sister? Either way, I'll be seeing you."

Then with a careless shrug, he stepped back through the mirror and was gone. Fetch stared after him: he would have followed him to the ends of the earth.

There was a long, hard silence in the study. Carry renewed her grip on Fetch. Fetch grasped the coin in both his hands.

Davaeorn glanced around. His eyes, which had been bright and civil, began to harden. He smiled, but not the way he had smiled in front of Angelo.

"The Captain and I are great friends. But after all, he doesn't really know me, does he?" he said quietly.

Then he snapped his fingers. Fetch felt a jolt in his fists and gave a high, shrill scream as the cold shape of the coin turned into a trickle of molten gold.

"Now," he said, stepping toward the children. "Where were we?"

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Davaeorn Kirth

Human

Lawful Evil

Invoker: Level 10

Strength: 17

Intelligence: 16

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Spirit Troll

Number of Kills: 189

Favorite Weapon: Staff of Striking

Favorite Spell: Lighting Bolt

* * *

_AN: Thanks for the review, banality!_


	13. On the Rainy River

_AN: It occurs to me that Part Two has a definite Apocalypse Now vibe – hence, a chapter title from Tim O'Brien's _The Things They Carried.

* * *

The Cloakwood kept its secrets. Its trees grew tall and dense, standing together like brothers, and vines shrouded what space remained between them. The scraggly woods between Beregost and the Friendly Arm were no comparison. Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the raft, Felix was glad they hadn't braved the journey on foot. 

The river was large and sluggish, pulling their makeshift vessel slowly toward the heart of the forest. Its water was a darkened mineral color: runoff, most likely from a mine, Jaheira had guessed. Now it was nighttime, and the dark had faded to black. Felix sat and stared at the tar-like water frothing up in their wake. A fog had hung over the river while the sun shone, and now a light drizzle had begun to fall, misting his face and speckling the water.

Jaheira approached soundlessly; it was only when she spoke he noticed her.

"Copper for your thoughts."

A week ago he would have been startled, but a certain calm had come over him since leaving Beregost.

"I was watching the woods," he said.

"They are quite beautiful, are they not?"

"I've never seen anything like them. I've never…" He paused, still looking into their churning wake. "Every day now, I see things I had only ever read about. I may be in danger, but there's a part of me that feels – my life is only now beginning."

"Every child should see a little of the world, I think. Though I cannot fault Gorion for valuing your safety first, it would have been – somewhat regrettable, had you remained in that stale fortress all your life."

"I liked it."

"I know. And there are many who would have envied you that life. But we all must leave home, sooner or later."

Felix looked around at her. She sat with her legs to one side, leaning on one arm, and the soft light from their enchanted lamp shone on half her face. It might have been the light, her pose, or her druid's proximity to nature, but in that moment there was something girlish in her aspect.

She caught him watching her, and smiled. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Enjoying…?" He laughed, a soundless bark. "I suppose I am, a little." Glancing around at the treetops, he said idly: "I'd never seen a shadow druid. I'd never seen a giant water snake."

"Though that encounter," said Jaheira, wrinkling her nose, "could have been more pleasant for all involved."

"We've been through worse."

"No doubt. And shall be through worse, still."

They were silent, and they heard unknowable shapes rustling through the forest, the hum of insects, and the soft hiss of the rain.

"What's at the end of the river?" asked Felix.

"Silvanus knows. Nothing pleasant, I am sure. I feel more and more that we have become involved in something truly foul. If Davaeorn Kirth has a hand in it, it must be a work to shame the eyes of the gods."

"Is he such a bad man?"

"My child, he is far worse than that woman who attacked us. Kirth is a merchant who trades not in gold or silver, but in human flesh. If there were anything human in that repulsive husk of meat, it died many moons ago. He is party insane, I am sure, but that does not excuse his actions."

"Do you think—" Lowering his eyes from the trees, Felix bit his lip. "Could he be the one? The armored man who attacked us?"

"No, child, I do not think so. Davaeorn is a sorcerer, and elaborate armor would encumber his casting. Besides, I doubt he would venture from his hole if it could be at all avoided; it seems unlike him. He may have courage of the most loathsome and perverted order, but he is also shrewder than a Calimshite grandfather."

"Then perhaps Davaeorn hired that man. Although—" He gave the faintest shudder. "I still remember him. And I doubt – somehow I doubt he would work for anyone…"

"Let us brood on this no longer, child. If you are finding any joy in these desperate circumstances, then I urge you to cling to it, and trust that matters will turn out for the best."

"For the best," he repeated, dully, and turned his eyes back to the river. "Yes, I suppose you're right…"

A loud snore issued from behind them. Their eyes met, and they smiled.

"Imoen," he said.

"No; it was Khalid."

"Are you sure? But it sounded so – _forceful_."

"A wife knows these things, child."

Felix grinned, colored, and looked away.

After another drifting silence, as if the subject of snores had somehow brought it to mind, Felix asked: "How does it happen?—I mean how are there men like Davaeorn? I don't understand – how anyone could want anything more than just to be safe. I don't want to hurt anyone; I just want to be left alone. And maybe sometimes people _have_ to hurt each other, but – there are people who _want_ to hurt each other. I don't understand; I never wished anyone any harm."

Jaheira's eyes widened. "Truly? Never?"

"Never," he said, unhesitatingly.

"Not even the man who slew Gorion?"

He hesitated, but answered: "No. No."

There was a final pause, before Jaheira swallowed and moved closer to him. In a low voice, like the hissing of the rain, she said: "I have a story to tell. Will you listen?"

"Of course," he said, surprised. He seemed uncomfortable at her proximity, and edged slightly away.

"Oh—" With a small frustrated noise, she gripped his shoulder and pulled him against her. "This is no time for modesty, child," she said, and glanced over her shoulder. "I don't want your friend to overhear; this is strictly between us. I want to tell you of your mother."

Felix went still. A familiar distant look came into eyes, and he said, as quietly as her: "I'm listening."

She sighed, and as he had done, looked out at the river.

"I don't believe in dwelling overmuch on the past," she began. "Many a man has been lost staring into its depths. Which is why, nevermind a certain wretched cowardice, I have put off discussing this again and again. But I believe it is time you knew _something_ of your history, at least.

"Your mother was – quite beautiful, an exceptional woman. You know I have only the highest respect for your late father – I mean to say foster-father – and if there ever were a woman worthy of his attentions, it was Leticia Lightfoot. She was herself half-eleven, a landowner's daughter, and she caught his eye on one of our many travels. It was clear to Khalid and myself that they would be quite happy together. But it was not to be. Gorion was cautious and gentle in his suit, and – I am truly sorry I must relate this, child – another came before him, and forced the bud."

She stopped, biting her lip.

"Another man pressed his suit?" Felix asked, breathless.

"No. I am afraid it is far, far worse than that." She swallowed. "Miss Leticia…Her father, as I said, was a landowner, and it was the dear girl's custom to pay calls on his tenants, to see that all went well with them. So it was she often went through the fields at night, without even a guard for her protection. It was her father's land, you see, and she believed she would be safe—"

He watched her intently. "Yes?"

"Felix," she said slowly, looking into his eyes, "your father was a murderer. A ravening lunatic who had escaped from some backwoods constabulary office. In fleeing, he somehow stumbled on your grandfather's land, and – and on your mother." Again she looked away. "So. Now you know."

"You mean to say he forced himself on her?" he said, with a child's directness.

"That is what I mean. But although she was horribly wronged, she – did survive. But only long enough to bear her child. To bear you, Felix. Shortly afterward she passed on, to the reward that awaits us all."

Although her voice was level, she seemed to speak quickly to conclude the tale before she lost it.

"That is the truth. That is the truth of your parentage."

Felix's face was calm and still. "Thank you," he said.

"Think nothing of it. I was a coward not to tell you sooner; I…" With a troubled look, she broke off. "But I did not tell you simply so that you should know. I hope you will take some instruction from this."

"Instruction, Miss Jaheira?"

"Your father was an evil man, child. But you see – you see that what is bred in the bone need not out in the flesh." Her voice grew quick and urgent. "You need not be the man – if one can even say _man_ – the man that your father was. If you keep hard to the good path, you may yet see your life expand into something glorious, something new…"

The momentum of her speech had carried her into unsure territory. She stopped, as if embarrassed.

"Thank you for telling me," he repeated. "I know where I came from, now, and that's good to know."

She seemed to consider this. "I suppose it is. Yes, you have a way of putting it…But you are not at all troubled? Knowing this does not disturb you in any way?"

"A little, perhaps. But somehow – I expected it might be worse." He shook his head. "I don't know…"

His words followed quickly on hers, then they both fell silent. They looked away from each other, and the mist continued to fall.

"Jaheira," he said. "Is it possible to live without hurting anyone?"

"What an odd question, child." She had grown sterner, more distant. Suddenly she got to her feet. "You should rest; we have a hard day ahead of us. We should arrive, soon, and we must be prepared for whate'er we find."

He looked up, disappointed; he had grown to like her company. She was pulling her cloak tight around her, as if only just noticing the damp, and casting apprehensive glances into the forest. The youthful aspect of a moment had gone.

"What about you?" he asked, reluctant to move.

"I must stand guard, of course. Imagine the four of us, floating down the river, all asleep…Silvanus knows what we might drift into. Or what might drift into us." She patted his shoulder. "Off with you, child; to bed."

He grinned impulsively, trying to cheer her. "Yes, big sister."

She allowed a grim smile. "Don't sleep, then. See how you fare tomorrow, when we come face-to-face with some unholy evil in the depths of this forest."

The thought sobered him. He stood, stretching his legs – he had been still for some time – and moved back toward the center of the raft, where Khalid and Imoen were already curled under linen blankets.

"Sleep tight," Jaheira whispered after him.

He looked back at her, where she stood outlined against the darkness, and felt a warmth in the pit of his stomach. He smiled. She smiled back less easily.

"Silvanus keep you," she added.

He stood still, the smile plastered to his face.

She frowned at him, then laughed. "Enough! Get along with you!"

Still smiling, he slid under the rough cotton blanket that had been laid out for him. After minutes, lulled by the rocking timber, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes **

Felix Lightfoot

Half-Elf

Neutral Good

Fighter: Level 2

Intelligence: 15

Wisdom: 13

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Neria


	14. Time and a Well Aimed Quarrel

A traveler attempting to pass on foot through the Cloakwood would do well to offer a prayer to both Silvanus and Tymora. The path is long and often difficult to find, and many lethal creatures call the wood home.

Its outer reaches are a haven of tasloi, wicked and cunning demihumans. Further in, the well-prepared adventurer may encounter the Cloakwood's most dangerous predator, the lesser wraith spider. Also known as Trapper's Bane, a full-grown lesser wraith is nearly as large a supine human, and bears a complex camouflage pattern. Perhaps its most eerie characteristic, it is able to move with near-silence over the forest floor.

No man alive has a sufficiently hardy constitution to throw off the effects of the lesser wraith's venom. It acts on the body like the touch of an eastern vampire, draining vital energy: spell commands are lost from the mind, sword arts are forgotten, the legs and arms become too weak to lift themselves. The venom remains in the body and unless a magical antivenom is administered, death follows within a tenday. The lesser wraith has no natural predators, and few men have come off the better after encountering one.

That day, though, the lesser wraith was no longer the most dangerous predator in the Cloakwood.

Nimbul had found and killed his first not long after entering the forest. He had damaged it too badly with his casting of burning hands, however, to collect any venom from the glands inside its head, and besides it was young. The second day he happened on a much older specimen. After one of the nearer scrapes of his long career, he managed to sever its head with a clean blow. That night, he hung the carcass out to dry, and placed a bowl under its mandibles to collect the colorless venom. It was most potent when allowed to drain slowly from the body. The legs would fetch a few gold as spell components, too, if he ever made it out of this Mask-accursed forest.

Now he lay on the riverbank, stomach-down on the warm moss. Sunlight had gathered like honey in the little hollow, lying over his arms and back, and he felt a strange deep peace. He held an instrument of death in his hands, a powerful sniper's crossbow purchased for nearly two thousand gold from a gnome in Baldur's Gate, but he felt as if he had only laid down to enjoy the beauty of the summer's day. The trees were full of birdsong and the river murmured by underneath him.

The barrel of the crossbow rested on the rocky outcrop, overlooking the river. The quarrel loaded in the groove was coated in a translucent venom. Three more quarrels were laid out on a strip of leather beside him. In his green cloak, he was a part of the moss and undergrowth. He had become like a spider himself, silent, invisible and deadly. Success had become a tranquil certainty.

He could hear the raft approaching, and the loud conversation from its deck. A moment later it drifted into view. They had been cautious, and he was sure the woman was aware of his presence in the wood – perhaps the wood itself had informed her – but they must have expected he would confront them face-to-face. Given the incompetent brand of assassinry they had encountered so far, that was no surprise.

The boy was standing on deck, practicing a simple _kata_ with his sword. The man sat nearby, offering comment, presumably critique. Having seen their battle with Neria through Abel's eyes, Nimbul knew the man was a capable fighter, to be respected – but that was no matter now. He could not protect the boy.

Nimbul tightened his finger on the trigger, then paused. His hand had begun to tremble slightly. Quickly, keeping the crossbow braced with his other hand, he reached for his pack and fetched out a sliver of pale yellow root. He had nearly exhausted his supply, but he could buy more with the five hundred gold that lay nearly within his grasp. He put it in his mouth and bit it in half. A bitter taste quickly gave way to a still-deeper sense of tranquility, and a leaden stillness in his arms. Most archers discounted bladeleaf root as far too potent, making any movement difficult, but he would not have to move to make the shot.

The raft had drifted squarely in front of him. He shifted the stock the slightest degree to the left, and his sights snugly enclosed the boy's head.

_So long_, he whispered.

Directly behind him, Abel cawed. His hand twitched.

_Shut up_, he thought, desperately trying to fix his aim again before the raft drifted out of sight. He had half a mind to spit the bird—

"_Hsst_."

Now he heard a noise like a snake, but he knew, stiffening with anger, that it was a human being.

"Don't you dare," it said, low and tense. It was a woman's voice.

Nimbul relaxed his hand on the trigger. In a moment, the raft had drifted past, and the voice of his target began to fade. There was silence in the hollow.

Finally, in an conversational tone, he spoke: "I suppose you have me covered, or some such?"

"Look around, slime."

Slowly, preparing a smile, he turned his head.

A girl stood at the narrow entrance to the hollow. She spoke again, in a voice as nervous as it was belligerent: "If you so much as bat an eyelid and I don't tell you to, you'll be sorry." She gripped a sword either in hand. "I call this one Ripper," she said, hefting the longer of the two, which had a vicious serrated edge, "and this one Poker." The other was short and smooth, like an overlong dagger. "And if you don't do just what I say, they'll have a word—stop _smiling_!"

He chuckled. "Well, Miss, you cost me quite a sum of money just now. And this is hardly the proudest moment of my professional career. I suppose I'd be angry, but most men would be flattered to have a pretty girl chase after them."

"Most _men_ aren't fit to lick the sole of my foot!"

She stopped, breathing heavily, and a flush rose to her cheeks. Nimbul's smile widened. For all her bravado, she was a girl after all.

She was slender and strong, her bare shoulders extremely unfeminine knots of muscle. Her clothing was an ill-fitting collection of outsized garments and rags. A metal plate that might have served a halfling was strapped to her chest, pushed outward by her breasts; scraps of leather were lashed around her feet with twine.

"Well?" he said. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"

She tossed her head. "My name is none of your business."

"I've heard that line before. But as you're threatening to kill me, I'd say it is my business."

"I said be quiet!" She brandished Ripper. "I know you think you're pretty smart. I can tell. But you're not gonna talk your way out of this. You try anything smart, and I'll—"

"Yes, yes, you'll kill me. So you've said. But if you wanted me dead, you would have done so already. That being the case, I suppose you want information – or the pleasure of torturing me before the kill. But in spite of your, forgive me, _uncouth_ demeanor, you really don't strike me as that type.

"So, darling. Why don't you tell me what I can do for you."

She drew in a long, slow breath. He waited. In the branches above their heads, Abel was silent.

"You look as if you've had a hard life," he added, sympathetically.

"Shut up, shut _up_! Don't you _dare_ sound like, like—just be quiet! And if you _ever_ call me _darling_—"

"Ha, ha! My apologies. I assure you, I'll do whatever I can to help."

She still seethed. "My business isn't with you. But _I_ know _you_ know who I'm looking for. Know him well."

"And who might that be, pray, madam? I count my friends more than a few."

"_Him_." She spoke the word with a violent intensity that impressed Nimbul. He recognized the kind of grief, or anger, that demanded respect. "You know who I mean. Look at me. Look good. Then you'll know."

He looked. Her face was curious: pretty features concealed by streaked filth and a purple design, covering her right cheek, like Rashemani war-paint. Her hair was long and unwashed. He looked, unsure what she expected him to see, and then it suddenly rose in front of his eyes like an image in a divining-cauldron.

He smiled again. "Ah-ha."

"You see." She spat on the ground. "You know."

"Eighteen years ago," he said in a soft, bemused voice, his eyes moving around the grove. "The Red Wolf, Mistuko Sonno, fled Kara-Tur. Bounty hunters followed. Those who chased after her also had _names_. Stupid, boyish affectation. One of them another Kara-Turan, a trap-artist, called the Fox. A mage called Dragonfly. A swordsman called Bones. And a rogue called Nimbul. Young men for such big prey. Boys, really. But they succeeded."

He looked back at her, and rage had given way to a quiet attention on her face.

"Forgive me, my lady. You are about eighteen summers, correct?"

"Correct," she hissed.

"Ah, we were deep in the cups that night. We were never that young again. And him – I didn't see much of him that night." His gaze drifted out over the river. He still lay motionless, hunched around his crossbow. "Yes, things have become quite clear now."

The girl had lowered her swords. "Bones. He was Bones, wasn't he?"

"However did you guess?—Though I suppose you don't look like a Kara-Turan, so that narrows it down to two. But you're right. And it was all so long ago, I suppose no one remembers what any of them looked like – except for me."

She nodded.

"And I suppose they called me the 'pale one?'—Or the 'ghost?' Or some such thing? There aren't many albinos on the Sword Coast."

Again, she nodded.

"Heh. Time is the only thing we can't outrun." He glanced at his crossbow. "Well, that and a well-aimed quarrel.—So now you've found his trail. And what do you mean to do when you find him?"

"Kill him," she answered.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

"And for what?—For giving you life?"

"Yes."

He regarded her as if she were more than he had given her credit for. She stared back at him, unblinking.

"Then go on. It's none of my business."

"Where is he?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"What were you doing here?" the girl asked, breathless. "Who are you hunting?"

"Now _that_, my dear, is none of _your_ business."

"Tell me!" In an instant, her swords were raised again. "Is _he_ with you?—Are you still in league with him?"

"No," said Nimbul, too quickly. Silence followed.

"That's a lie," said the girl.

He was a killer by trade, but also an actor; a confidence man, a conjuror with word and gesture. To be caught out so easily in a falsehood was a second blow to his pride. And it had been a stupid, impulsive lie; for what purpose? He couldn't really want to protect the fool. Whatever he suffered from this was on his own head.

But he felt a blood-tingling in his limbs. Nearly ten minutes had passed, and the numbing effects of the bladeleaf root were fading.

As if she had read his mind, she suddenly ordered: "Take your hands off the bow."

"As you wish." He removed them gently, and held them up on either side of his head.

"That axe," she said, pointing with her chin. "Throw it here.—Hold it by the blade. No tricks."

He loosed the throwing axe from his belt and held it in one hand, pausing for a moment, as if to think.

"_Now_!" the girl screamed.

Nimbul bit his fingers and whistled once. A dark blur fell from the trees and assaulted the girl's head, cawing loudly.

It was always the same: he moved as if in a dream, with leisure. He was not quick; the rest of the world was slow. His hand reversed its grip on the axe and threw it.

The girl swung blindly as Abel's beak stabbed at her eyes. The axe revolved through the air with a loud metallic scream, straight at her head. Nimbul felt the ease of victory, and drew his dagger almost in afterthought.

The girl's head flinched to the right. The axe screamed past, shearing her hair, and went on to slice through leaves and branches.

She ducked under the raven's wings and lunged at him with Ripper and Poker. As quick as she had moved, he raised his hand and shouted a word: two blinding red missiles sparked from the tip of his fingers and struck her in the shoulder, searing through her rags. She screamed.

A common assassin might have paused to gloat, but Nimbul knew what put him above the rest. Without a moment's pause he kicked out, knocking her legs from under her, and she fell on top of him. He gripped her around the chest; her swords were useless. In a moment, she would outmuscle him, but a moment was all he needed. He gripped his dagger and drove it into her back, twice, hard.

She went still. It occurred to him, in an idle moment, how much they must look like two lovers enjoying a tryst in this idyllic grove.

With his blade still buried between her ribs, she tore herself out of his grip and dived to the right. He heard a whistling noise. The axe, magically bound to his hand, shot straight back at him and buried itself in his chest with a meaty wet noise.

A moment of silence followed.

His eyes expanded with pain; or it might have been simple astonishment. The blade had sunk to the shaft, cracking two ribs, and blood flowed in a merry trickle down the front of his tunic.

Standing, the girl pulled his knife from her back. She had endured worse. She looked at the blade, then tossed it between his feet.

His hazy, dying eyes met hers, looking amused.

"Quick," he muttered. "Just like….your father."

They regarded each other a long time. She could see him fading, and he made no move to save himself. She lifted Poker and drove it into his chest.

For a long time, hot wetness rushed out over her arm, but she forced herself to keep still. She would grow to like this; it would not be the last time she had to do it. Finally the bleeding slackened, and even his slightest movements stopped.

Then her own pain reached her, and she tore through his pack until she found a dark blue potion in an ale bottle. She gulped it down, splashing it over her gore-stained neck and shoulders. The pain diminished immediately. Later, aided by the magic in the potion, the wounds would slowly heal. She would tear up his clothes to bind them.

She collapsed beside him, breathing raggedly and wanting to cry. There was no thrill of victory, only an aching gladness to be alive. The sun seemed brighter; the air more sweet. Even the remnants of pain were somehow welcome.

Nimbul's dead eyes stared up at the canopy, his mouth fixed forever in a vague half-smile. The girl's eyes, after a time, moved to the river, where she had seen a raft vanish. Suddenly she knew her course.

Meanwhile, already distant, a raven winged toward Baldur's Gate, a scrap of parchment tied to its leg.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Shar-Teel the Nameless

Human

Chaotic Evil

Barbarian: Level 4

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Grizzly Bear

Favorite Weapon: Ripper and Poker

Favorite Spell: Barbarian Rage

_Shar-Teel_, in Waterdavian lowspeak: runt-child, whelp.


	15. The Shade's Story: Live Forever

AN: If you look back, you'll see the first Shade's Story now has a title.

* * *

Day in, day out. As the seed breaks open in fertile soil, so the youth becomes a man, and the lass a woman – though rarely is the passage as quick or simple.

Who will hear my words? Who would listen? Who could ever want to hear?

The Red Wolf, she was called, and red she was indeed that day. She fled, and bright red flowers bloomed in her footsteps. Bones had cut her armor; my arrow found its mark in the breach he made. Gathering close, like children around the fire, we heard her final words.

Mistuko Sonno, the Red Wolf, looked to the sky and said: "I see—"

"I see, I see—"

We were never to know.

Then in the closeness of the tavern, the fire burned high – it was winter-time – and the voices grew loud and ale-hearty, and feet and tongues grew loose, and all the world seemed to embrace itself.

In the space cleared among the tables, Fox and Dragonfly danced a jig, though they could not seem to agree if it were a Tethyrian reel or the ancient Kara-Turan marriage dance. There was much singing and clapping and stamping. Spilled ale pooled under the tables, and I sat apart with Bones while he took glass after glass of Elminster's Favorite.

I never touched the drink; I put my wits at too high a price. The Fox took heroic portions of mead and whisky, but through his infernal Eastern luck, it only seemed to make him giddy and gay, and never left the slightest head-pain in the morning. But Bones drank the way Bones did everything and all, in deadly earnest.

Time after time the empty mug came down on the table; time after time our brown-haired Rachel rushed from behind the bar, carrying the tankard of ale like water needed to douse a fire. Bones sat with his hand curled on the handle, raising it again and again to the grim hole in his face. And I sat beside him. I don't know why. I could have danced a jig, or kissed a girl; there were enough of them, all eyes for us grand heroes.

We were no heroes. The Red Wolf was a hero. She stole from merchants and gave to beggars. In Kara-Tur she was a hero, but we were not in Kara-Tur, and no one knew. In Waterdeep she was not a hero, she was a bounty of four hundred gold, but in Kara-Tur she was a hero. She was a hero and dead. And I sat in the corner with Bones, and he attacked himself over and over with the rim of a pewter tankard.

Still, there was gold in our purses, and the inn was warm. Fox tried unwisely to play at darts, then I looked at Bones and his face was wet.

First I thought he had splashed himself. Laughing, I tried to pry the tankard out of his hand; then I saw it wasn't ale that covered his cheeks. He looked at me, and I felt like a fool and a boy, and wanted to be on the other side of the room with my arms around the miller's younger daughter.

"Nimbul," he said.

"Nimbul, I—"

"Get a hold on yourself, old man."

"Nimbul I, I…"

"Come on, stow that. You want everyone should see you like this?"

"Nimbul."

"Come off it."

"Nimbul, I—"

Then Rachel was sitting with us, our Rachel of the walnut tresses; the tresses we called her by, but when we looked at her, our eyes were elsewhere. She was killing beauty, and she would never be that young again.

"Nimbul."

"Right, then; spit it out, old man."

"Nimbul. What did she_ see_?"

I stared. "What in Mask's name d'you mean?"

But Rachel's hand, her hand like a dove with folded wings, rested on his arm, and he was saying: "What did she, what did she _see_…Nimbul, you've got to tell me. I can't stand not knowing."

"Buck up," whispered Rachel, stroking his hair. "It'll be all right, luv. You're drunk. You're terribly drunk, that's all."

"I'm _not_ drunk, I'm…"

She stroked his hair and he was silent. Long, rich, dark hair. Even later, when I saw him wracked and suffering, pinned behind an oak desk, pinned inside himself.

"What did she see," he muttered. "What did she see?"

"My apologies, Neria," he said. "I must grant precedence to my old friend…"

No, that was not then, no; that was later. My mind wanders.

He drank and asked: "What did she _see_?"

Then he was gripping my arm, looking in my eyes, and he said: "Nimbul, it's going to happen to me some day. Isn't it?"

"What do you mean, old man?"

"I'd going to happen me some day," he said to Rachel. "What happened to her."

"Cor, but you're not past you're past twentieth summer," she purred. "Why think on it?" She was dressed in red, and her lips were red as they bit off each delicate word. "Why think on it? You're a strapping young lad; it'll be years n' years…"

I had not touched a drop of ale but I felt drunk; I was confused and tired. I didn't understand a word. I didn't understand why his face was wet.

"It's going to happen to me, and then I'll know – I'll know what it was she saw. But I don't want that. I don't _want_ to see it, Nimbul. Don't wanna die. Wanna live. Live forever, _live_!"

Then he was crying in Rachel's lap, his thick dark hair under her white hands, and he was handsome and she was beautiful, and they would never be that young again.

"Nimbul," he said, "do you remember Tarnesh?"

No, that was later.

"He's dead."

That was later. That night, when the inn was warm and the stars were bright and we were heroes and the Red Wolf was not a hero and dead, he put his head in Rachel's lap, Rachel of the walnut tresses, buxom, beautiful Rachel, whose family name we never knew for we would be gone in the morning, he put his head in her lap and begged her to give him eternal life because he did not want to see what the Red Wolf, Mistuko Sonno, had seen in the starry sky that night.

Then I was sitting alone, drinking for two men, after Rachel of the walnut tresses had taken him by the hand and led him upstairs.

"Your god be with you," he said. "And – see you don't get yourself killed."

That was later.

"Well all do things," he said, "we aren't proud of sometimes."

"You understand."

That was later, later.

Or perhaps it was not.

My tongue grows numb. I can speak no more.


	16. Duel: Two

Since dawn, the mood of the group had been stern and quiet. Even Imoen, who had grown restless and asked more than once if they were at their destination _now_, sat silently as she waxed her bowstring. Jaheira and Khalid stood near the front of the raft, glancing into the woods and at each other. Felix sat cross-legged behind them with his eyes shut, trying to clean his mind.

It was an exercise he had learned from Blademaster Meilum. He remembered sitting on the cold stone floor of the practice room, wondering how it was possible to think of nothing when thinking of nothing was, itself, thinking of something. The lesson had not been learned as easily as the fundamentals of parrying or riposting. Even now, he was unsure what he meant to achieve, but merely sitting with his eyes shut calmed his nerves. Maybe that was all the Master had meant.

Felix felt the raft slow. Opening his eyes, he saw Jaheira with her hand on their makeshift rudder. A white beech trunk, fat with decay, had fallen across the river.

"N-no good," said Khalid, hanging his head, "we'll have to go the r-rest of the way on foot, I suppose…and really, it was working out so well."

Jaheira narrowed her eyes. "It's a trap."

Imoen was on her feet in an instant; Felix got up more slowly, reaching for his sword. He had yet to draw the beautiful Kara-Turan blade against a living enemy, and was unsure if he hoped that he would never have to.

Khalid was glancing around apprehensively. "H-how can you be so sure, dear?"

"I know."

"But it looks like that tree got blasted by lightning," said Imoen, pointing.

"Yes. And strange that there was no lightning, this day or the past one, yes?"

Felix and Khalid drew their swords. Imoen notched an arrow, and they drew together, looking in all directions.

The wood was silent. The light rain of the past day had become a white fog, hanging over the river in patches like half-submerged bodies. The air had a blank wet smell.

Felix flinched as the edge of the raft shored up against the fallen trunk.

"Jaheira?" said Imoen faintly, holding her bow at her waist.

"Yes, child?" The druid's voice was tough and nonchalant, as if she were not gripping her staff until her knuckles paled.

"Do you – smell something?"

Jaheira sniffed. Before she could decide, Felix said:

"Yes, now that mention it…Like something burning."

"I see no smoke," said Jaheira, still testing the air, the tip of her small nose twitching.

Khalid was shaking. He pronounced a word, stuttering too badly to be understood.

"What's that?—Speak up, dear."

"S-s-sandalwood," he managed. "I-incense."

"Incense!" Jaheira's nostrils flared, as if the simplicity of it offended her. "The devil…"

There was a whining noise and a quick sharp thud; a black-fletched arrow had buried itself in the wood at her feet. She leapt back nearly halfway across the raft. Felix flinched around, searching with his eyes for the archer; Imoen had already taken aim. Then nearly a dozen fat shapes rose out of the undergrowth, their heads and shoulders covered in foliage. _Tree spirits_, Felix thought, but he realized as they stood that they were humanoids, leaves and trimmings fastened to their armor. Their pig-like features were clear.

"Hobgoblins," Imoen said.

Under the leaves, they were dressed in uniform, identical black leather tunics. Though it seemed of little importance, Felix tried to recall what army or mercenary force might employ the violent, stupid demihumans. He remembered – a dusty page; late one night in the library.

"The Chill," he whispered, and he saw Jaheira nod.

"Bandits," she whispered back.

Each hobgob had drawn a shortbow, but they held their fire, and kept a military silence. From the gleam in their eyes, Felix thought they might have been recruited for their intelligence.

More loudly, Jaheira said: "What little iron we have is not worth its price in blood! Go your way, and we will go ours!"

Silence followed. Not one of the hobgobs spoke, or gave any sign that they had heard. Felix held his breath. He imagined that at the slightest provocation – a falling leaf, a cough – twelve shafts would be loosed, and that would be the end of it.

A man stepped onto the log above them. He moved cautiously, most likely because of the heavy steel plate he wore. Watching him closely, following him with the point of his sword, Felix saw that he was young. A shock of white-blonde hair fell halfway across his face. It was a dandy's face, better suited to a fine linen frock than the armor he wore, and of a piece with the ginger way he carried himself.

"You," hissed Jaheira. "You will answer for this foolishness, boy. Why have you and your men staged an ambush in such a gods-forsaken place?—Did you imagine your web would catch a single fly?"

"First of all," said the man, hunkering down on the log in front of her, "I must insist you don't refer to them as _my_ men. They are neither _mine_, nor _men_, for that matter."

He pushed his thick hair back off his forehead. Felix thought the gesture had been calculated, and his voice was too calm, too idle. He looked at Jaheira with bright blue eyes, and smiled.

"But how _could_ I be so beastly rude?—Allow me to introduce myself." He got to his feet again, moving in a listless, topheavy way. "I am Taugosz Khosann, right hand of the illustrious Venkt Nekrash, leader of the illustrious Black Talon Group."

Jaheira spat. "As if you were simple merchants. I will tell you what I told your underlings; you would do well to mark your prey elsewhere."

"Ah, ah-ha, but—" Again, Khosann ran his hand through his hair. "I'm afraid you are my prey. Most specifically."

"What do you mean, you prancing lack-sense?"

Khosann's smile faded. "Watch your tongue, wench, or I'll rip it out of your mouth."

"I'd like to see you try it, schoolboy."

Khosann seemed sorely tempted, and his hand lingered near the elaborate jeweled hilt of his sword, but he finally turned away with a sneer. "You'll not bait me so easily, strumpet. I did not reach my current position through such – _indiscretions_."

"Perhaps by your exquisite beauty, then?" said Jaheira with mock-sweetness.

"Silence!" His high young voice pierced through the canopy, and Felix shuddered. He glanced frantically at Jaheira, wondering why she was goading the man who held their lives in his hands.

"D-d-dear…" Khalid began.

Khosann broke out laughter. "My oh my, look at this one, boys! He's shaking so badly he can scarcely hold his sword! Is that your pleasure-slave, lady?"

"Speak not of my husband," Jaheira flung back easily. "I doubt you've ever laid your hands on a girl."

Khosann didn't answer, and for a moment Felix thought he had tired of games. Then his face went red as an open wound.

"You _dare_!" he said, and his hand went to his sword and he began to draw it.

The bows of the hobgobs rustled, and they looked warily from Jaheira to Khosann.

"Well?" said Jaheira, cloyingly. "Are you going to put your sword in me, boy? I shouldn't worry; I don't suppose it will penetrate far…"

Khosann screamed and his sword rattled free of the scabbard. It was a bastard sword, nearly as long as his leg. Felix was certain he would leap at them, and readied himself…

He felt a burning in his mouth. It was the smell Imoen had mentioned, a thousand times stronger, and he was suddenly choking on it.

Khosann, holding his sword, froze. He sniffed the air.

"Bedamned," he hissed.

The hobgobs also glanced about, muttering angrily in their own tongue. They seemed to have forgotten their targets. Felix looked to Jaheira, who was looking to Khalid; Imoen grasped his sleeve and asked him in a thin panicked voice what was going on.

"T-t-turn around," Khalid said to Jaheira, and they all looked around.

The water behind them had begun to froth. It had been a dark color all along, but now it was entirely black and looked like boiling tar. With a shudder, Khalid remembered the skeletons rising at Neria's bidding from the handful of dust. A smooth skull-like head slowly broke the surface of the river.

"No!" said Khosann, in a voice as panicked as Imoen's. "Not _you_…"

A man was rising out of the water, but he was as dry as if he had never touched it. He had a withered look, like a mummy, but his eyes were alive and searched the raft in front of him.

"Unholy," breathed Jaheira.

"D-demonic," said Khalid.

"Semaj," said Khosann, and spat to the side.

The man stood on the surface of the water, and it continued to bubble around his feet. Long robes of faded colors hung from his stick-like arms and chest; his neck was laden with chains of wooden beads and golden trinkets. Among them seemed to be a number of teeth. He looked at them impassively, and Felix was sure he was the avatar of some dark god. He wondered if he should pray.

Then the man spoke, and his voice was not loud or terrible, but strangely flat: "You will do the boy no injury. He is mine."

"Shove off!" yelled Khosann, holding his sword in two trembling hands. "This is none of your concern, mageling!"

"Mageling?" said the man who stood on the water, and he smiled. "Mageling? You are a fool and a heretic. I leave you to rot."

With that, he took a step and mounted the raft. Khalid and Imoen cringed back, but Jaheira stood firm; Felix was too overcome to consider moving. His eyes were fixed by the strange man's eyes, which seemed to have no color.

"I have come for you," the man said to Felix.

"I don't want to go," he answered, which seemed a foolish thing to say even as it left his mouth, but he was beginning to doubt that he controlled his own voice.

"You will come with me," said the man. "And you will learn."

He stretched out his hand. Imoen loosed her arrow, and the shaft whistled straight through him.

The man stood a moment looking down at the clean hole in his chest. He inclined his head, and the flesh wove shut. Imoen covered her mouth and moaned.

"You don't have the authority!" Khosann was yelling. "I'll tell the council! They'll put a handle on you! You aren't—!"

"Peace," said the man, and he gestured; Khosann's voice ceased immediately. He clutched at his throat, quickly turning purple.

The man stepped closer. Jaheira leapt in front of him; he gestured again, and as quickly as she had moved, she seemed to jump away of her own accord. She landed with a crash in the river.

The man reached out and put his hand on Felix's shoulder. Felix felt nothing. Looking behind the man, he saw no footprints on the deck.

"Come," the man said, and smiled. "There is much for us to do."

Then they were gone. The forest was as still as before.

Jaheira, treading water, stared and blinked. Khalid gasped.

"T-thrice damned," choked Khosann, and began to suck air heavily. He massaged his throat. "Bastard! Arrogant, hand-waving _bastard_!" He glanced around furiously, and as if to vent his anger, bellowed: "What in the hells are you stupid pig-snouts waiting for; kill them all!"

Before Khalid, Imoen and Jaheira had come to terms with the empty space where Felix had stood, hell broke loose.

Nine shafts were loosed. Two streaked toward Jaheira, but coming to her senses quickly, she dived and plunged underneath the raft.

Three more stuck in the wood at Khalid's feet. A fourth buried itself in his shield; a fifth, unfortunately, found its mark in his shoulder. Spinning around, he stumbled and fell.

Imoen leapt to the side, dodging the last two arrows. She had already notched her own and let it fly, striking a hobgob in the throat. He vanished, gurgling, into the undergrowth.

Khosann leapt onto the raft, swinging his sword in both hands. On his knees, Khalid managed to parry. The boy's face was still bright red and he moved clumsily.

* * *

On the left bank, a Chill hobgob notched his second arrow. He took aim at the spot where the woman had vanished, waiting patiently for her to reappear, when he felt a prick between the plates of his armor. He hardly had time to mind it before the pain flooded through his limbs. He felt his arms go slack, and in the last moment before he lost his balance he twisted his head around to see—

—the grinning face of a human girl, streaked with mud.

She grabbed the body to cushion its fall and the next hobgob heard nothing. Shar-Teel crept through the ivy, clutching the second of Nimbul's envenomed bolts. When she was close enough she buried it in his neck.

* * *

On the right bank, three hobgobs drew their bows again. Jaheira had not surfaced, and Khalid sparred with Khosann on the deck of the raft. Imoen took aim, but before she could claim a second kill, Khalid blundered back into her and sent her sprawling. He was knocked off-balance as well; the next moment two arrows thudded into his side. Khosann marked the opening and drove in, sweeping aside his shield and slashing clear across his chest.

The chainmail split. He fell back, bleeding, and dropped his sword; but as Khosann stepped in to finish him, an ill-timed arrow cut between them. He turned and cursed at the archers.

Flat on her back, Imoen looked in horror at Khalid. His eyes were shut and blood was pumping quickly from the broad wound. Khosann stepped forward, looked down, and seemed to decide that finishing him was not worth the effort. He touched his hair and stepped over the body, toward Imoen.

"Never touched a girl," he muttered, furiously chewing the words. "See about that." He reached down and put his hands on Imoen's shoulders.

For the first time, she heard one of the Chill hobgobs speak: "Kill her now, sir?"

"No!" he shot back. Returning his eyes to her, he said more quietly: "She's mine. That Nezar can have the boy; why shouldn't I have the girl?"

He helped her to her feet with what he seemed to think was tenderness, and she stood shaking in front of him.

"Don't be afraid," he said, and brushed back his hair one final time. He smirked. "I promise I'll take _very_ good care of you."

She launched herself forward and buried her shoulder in his chest. He shrieked, took two lurching steps back, and fell in the river.

The hobgobs hesitated, glancing from Imoen to the flailing form of Khosann. The boy clung to the edge of the raft, barely keeping his head above the water. His hair was plastered against his face, and a very real look of panic filled his eyes.

"What are you waiting for, pig-snouts! Save me; _save_ me!"

After a moment, they began to look at him with unmistakable disdain. They remained where they stood.

A different look became to come over Khosann's face. Panic gave way to a kind of slow horror; a revelation.

Imoen stepped to edge of the raft.

"Can't swim," he gasped, and spit out water. "Too heavy. Can't."

She stared down, wondering if she was really going to do what she meant to do.

"Please," he said. "Help me."

She put her foot on his hand and kicked it into the water. One last glimpse of his wide, terrified blue eyes, and he was gone.

The hobgobs stood on the shore, drawing their bows again. They edged nearer and nearer, taking good aim. Imoen notched her arrow. She knew she would die, but she could take at least one with her…

Jaheira exploded from the water at the hobgob's feet. Sending brilliant cascades of water in every direction, her staff twirled around, laying them all flat in a rapid series of blows. She stood there gasping, the river dripping from her hair.

A jolt of horror came over Imoen at the thought of the dead hobgoblins and Khosann, vanishing under the water, but it was soon overcome. She felt a certain grim satisfaction. Pushing the thought aside, she knelt by Khalid. His eyes were open and he was breathing.

The raft rocked as if someone had landed on it. Imoen looked up; Jaheira was still on the shore, wringing out her hair. With another jolt, she remembered the archers on the other bank, and turned with her bow raised.

A strange woman stood in front of her, dressed in rags. Her tunic was splashed with blood, and she held a dripping sword in either hand.

A sudden exhaustion struck Imoen. She felt as if she had run the entire gambit of emotion in an hour, and the last and strongest, confusion, now came over her.

In a wildly trembling voice, she asked the question that had seemed to rule her life in recent days: "F-friend – or foe?"


	17. Mind Games

_If there is a hell, its miracle must be that we somehow keep our sanity through the torments. Otherwise it might be bearable._

"It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror. Horror has a face. And you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror…are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared."

—Colonel Walter E. Kurtz

* * *

Felix woke to a cool sensation on his forehead. It was not what he had expected, and as he opened his eyes, he was as confused as frightened. 

A man with a corpse-like face and long unwashed hair leaned over him. Felix started in terror, but realized that it was not the same man who had risen out of the depths of the river. The man's face was thin from starvation, and his eyes, unlike the glass beads that seemed to have been set in the head of his captor, were alive and full of intelligence.

The man held a damp rag to his forehead and said: "It's about time you came round. I was about to ring the guards and tell them they'd pitched a corpse in here. Wouldn't put it past the buggers, too."

"W-who…"

"Don't try to talk; you're parched through. You've been out eight hours and you haven't touched water. They only put it in here once a day and we've used today's. I can't tell if it's part of the torture, or if they really haven't got a drop to spare…The river's undrinkable. One of guards told me they keep it in kegs somewhere. Nice bloke; too bad he got flogged for fraternizing with prisoners."

Felix ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth; it had the texture of gravel. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position.

"Here," said the man, holding the soaking rag in front of him. "Have a suck in this. It'll help."

Felix eyed the rag. It was obviously a stocking, and smelled foul, but he took it and chewed it gratefully.

"Thanks," he choked, licking his lips.

"Don't mention it." The man rocked back, lacing his hands behind his head. They sat near a rough stone wall in a torchlight room, and the man leaned on the wall. "We're both as good as dead. Might as well help each other out, I suppose."

Felix leaned back as well. The stone was rough and dry under his shoulders, and he wanted another drink.

"Glass eyes," he muttered. "Coming out of the water. Imoen."

"I say, are you feeling alright?" The man touched his forehead with a physician's brusqueness. "Don't seem feverish. But do try not to lose your mind, won't you? I don't fancy being trapped down here with a lunatic and a practical corpse."

Felix started forward and looked around. The room was small, and he immediately spotted its other occupant. A tiny body, a boy no more than ten years, lay curled up against the adjoining wall. A piece of sackcloth had been fastened around his waist; his chest was bare. It seemed unusually muscled for such a young child. Irregular char marks covered his back and shoulders. After blinking several times, Felix realized the marks were handprints.

He caught his breath. "Oh my god."

The man beside him snorted. "He's been like that for hours. He was getting a little better, but then last night they dragged him out and did him over again. Of course I say _they_, but it's not really they. _Him_. Before that, he could even say a few words. Said his name. Said mine. Asked me if I were priest so I could bless him before he died. It felt bad to lie to the little chap, but it would've felt worse not to. For all he knows I'm a cleric of Ilmater.

"I've been giving him most of my water, but it doesn't look good. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if we have the cell to ourselves tonight."

Felix looked at him. He wore a purple robe that had once been fine, but was now threadbare and streaked with dust. Scuffed traveler's boots clung to his feet. The peaked ends of elven ears were visible through his hair. The hair cast shadows that hid his face and made it look even more cadaverous. If Felix had not heard him speak, his appearance would have been terrifying.

"What's your name?" he said.

"Xan." The man spit it out as it were an embarrassing disease. "Not hard to remember, is it?"

"Xan," said Felix, faintly. He held out his hand. "I'm Felix. Felix L-Lightfoot."

"Well met, Master Lightfoot," Xan said with studied irony. "I supposed whichever of us goes first, we can make a bit of a tombstone for the other. Nothing fancy. Just scratch it somewhere, you know."

Felix was staring at the far wall like a lotus eater.

"What did he do?" he asked.

"What did who do?"

"The boy. The b-boy over there." He gestured, but wouldn't look.

"Oh him," said Xan, as if he had not expressed his concern, a moment ago, that the boy would be dead by nightfall. "I heard tell he tried to kill the Master. Brave little chap. Though I don't suppose it really matters, does it? Around here, if the Master says live, you live. He changes his mind, you die. Doesn't really need much of a reason."

"Who's the Master?"

"Aside from 'a complete and utter bastard,' I haven't got the faintest idea. It can't be that insufferable git Khosann. Must be someone else."

"Davaeorn," said Felix. "It must be Davaeorn.—We're underground, aren't we?"

"Your powers of erudition dazzle me, Master Lightfoot."

For a time they were silent. Water dripped somewhere nearby, and Felix's throat burned. He tugged on Xan's sleeve.

"Hey. Hey. I'm sorry, but – have you got any more water?"

"If I did, to be honest, I think I'd keep it for myself. I haven't had a proper drink since morning."

Although he seemed unsociable, he talked quickly and volubly, and Felix suspected he was glad of the opportunity. How long had he been alone here?

"I say, though," he said, nudging Felix in turn. "Have you got any tobacco on you?"

"Tob—? No, sorry. Sorry. I don't."

"Hell." The man leaned back and covered his eyes. "I'm dying for a smoke. I'd give up all my water if I could just get a pipe in my mouth. Perhaps if I make out I'm really dying, they'll give me a last request…"

The boy made a noise.

In a moment, Xan had crawled on his hands on knees across the cell and knelt by him, asking softly: "Hi, can you hear me? Fetch? Xan calling Fetch. Come in Mate."

The boy stirred a little, but was silent.

Xan touched his shoulder. "You just rest mate. Take it easy. I talked with – err, Ilmater; he'll sort you ought in a couple of hours. Not long now."

He crawled back, looking, if it were possible, more subdued than ever. Again he leaned against the wall and covered his eyes.

"What did _you_ do?" said Felix.

"Pardon?"

"What did you do? To get here?"

"Oh," said Xan, waving his hand, "nothing much. Just happened to wander into a nest of bandits. Charmed a few guards. Had a look at some documents. Killed Ardennor Crush. Someone took it the wrong way."

Felix laughed.

"Who's Ardennor Crush?"

"Leader of the Chill. Or he was. These Black Talon hoods and hobgobs have been coming down hard as anything on the trades routes recently, and they've never worked together before," Xan went on. "The fortress elders wanted someone to investigate, naturally, and so they picked out two _someones_ – Elisia and me."

"Elisia?"

"Yes. Bloody good ranger. Walked like a ghost."

"What happened to her?"

Xan set his mouth. "Crush happened to her."

"Did you like her?" Felix asked, aware of both how imbecilic and how insensitive he sounded.

Xan shrugged. "I don't know. Not anymore, at least. There's not much of her to like anymore."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You've got enough to be sorry for yourself."

"Why did they send you two?"

"Well, she was our sacred forest's ranger, and I was Graycloak."

"Graycloak?"

"Yes. If you haven't got a clue what that means, that makes a pair of us. When I took the job, you understand, I though it entailed a bit of arbitrating, a bit of helping people out. Settling if Llewellynstole Gandal's harp. Now I find myself sitting _here_, and, well – I really suppose I ought to thank those council blokes. An unpeeled birch rod up each their arses ought to do it. Or perhaps they could all fit on one birch rod, if it were long enough."

Felix laughed again.

"I say, it doesn't take much to set you off, does it? Couldn't have asked for a better audience. Now if only you had a bit of tobacco…"

"Have you got a pipe?" said Felix.

"No."

He laughed as if were the funniest thing he had ever heard, then his laughter tapered off dryly and he began to cry.

"What am I doing here," he said. "What's happened to me."

Xan patted him clumsily on the back. "Buck up, Master Lightfoot. Look at it the way I do."

"How's that?" said Felix, through his tears.

"Things can't get any worse," said Xan.

Felix gave a hideous half-smile, half-grimace.

"That's the spirit," said Xan, snapping his fingers. "That's exactly the spirit. You see," he leaned back against the wall again, seeming in higher spirits himself, "the way I see it, at least we haven't got anything to lose. Back when I _had_ anything to speak of – a home, friends, enough food and all that – well, every day I was afraid I'd lose it. I haven't got to worry about that now, have I?"

Felix laughed more weakly than ever.

"So what's your story?"

"M-my story?"

"Yes. Share and share alike, isn't it?"

Felix's eyes went dull. "Glass eyes. The water. Look out…" He shook his head. "I was – just now, I was somewhere else. On the river. A man came out the water, and he—"

"Hang on. This man, did he look like a dried-up piece of meat?"

Felix nodded. "Thin. Like a skeleton."

"Earring? Looked like a tooth?"

"No, but – a lot of necklaces. Robes. Seen something like it before – in a book. The mountains. Clerics in the mountains."

Xan nodded, his mouth set thoughtfully. "Yes, he's got up like one of those mystics. But I don't think he is one. I think he's a common mageling, and a cheat. But a bloody powerful one at that. I wouldn't cross him if I could help it, but it's too late now."

"Who – who is he?"

"Semaj." Xan pronounced the name with more contempt than his own. "Semaj Ahil-Nezar. _The tooth that bites the mind_. You know there are fallen paladins who go around selling their swords? Well I suppose this Semaj is to those mystical holy orders what those Paladins are to _their_ holy orders. Perhaps he got expelled from one. But in any case, he's a thug, like any one of these bandits."

Felix swallowed. "W-what does he want with me?"

"Now that I can't say." Xan looked at the ground between his feet. "You're better off not knowing, I expect. He'll attempt to break you. Mess around inside your head. And I shouldn't need to tell you this, but—" he began to count on his brittle, long-nailed fingers—"don't believe anything he says, don't take anything he gives you, don't even answer his questions, and he'll give up on you eventually."

"He will?"

"Count on it. He tried it with me first."

The cell door rattled open. Felix had missed the guard's approach, absorbed in Xan's conversation, and he tensed.

"Hey youse," grunted the hobgob, dressed in the black Chill leathers. "Master wants youse now. Come on out."

Xan raised his head. "And which 'youse' would that be, erudite friend?"

The hobgob gestured. "Littler youse. Fatter youse."

Felix's heart stopped. Interrupting the attack of dread came the absurd thought that, for once, his skinny self was 'fatter.'

Out of the guard's sight, Xan pressed his hand. "Well I suppose that's it. I'd wish you luck, but really, I don't want to get your hopes up."

Looking at the sallow, hard-faced elf, Felix felt a powerful rush of gratitude, but was at a loss to express it.

"In case you make it back," said Xan, "I'll try to save you a little gruel. But I'm not promising anything, understand."

"Now!" grunted the guard, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him upright. Felix shot a last look at Xan, then at the motionless boy. The guard dragged him off along the corridor. Jerked so suddenly into motion, his eyes still wet with tears and this mouth still dry, he felt a vertiginous pull and nearly vomited.

* * *

The hallway blurred around him. Identical rock walls, fitted with identical torches, floated past his eyes. The guard's grip on his arm was hard and unrelenting. Finally, after what seemed like a horrible fairground ride, he was thrown on the ground in front of an iron door. 

"Ups," said the guard, and kicked him. "Look neats for the Master, now. Master likes neats."

Felix got up. He braced himself against the door, clutching the large rivets set in it at intervals.

"Davaeorn?" he said.

The guard cocked his head. "Eh? What that?"

"Is it – Davaeorn? Behind this door?"

"How you know that name? None of youse business. Get in with youse. But—" He put his thick hairy hand on Felix's, pinning it to the door. "Not until I's gone. You not open it till I's gone. Understands?"

Felix looked at him. "You're scared," he said.

"Youse shut up. Youse not know anything," the hobgob said, but his voice was faint. He released Felix's hand. "Youse better not open it till I gone."

He backed away slowly, keeping his eyes on Felix and the door. There were no other guards present. Felix guessed it was a stretch of the caves that few other people visited. Finally, the guard with his suspicious eyes vanished from sight, and he was alone. He wondered what was supposed to keep him from running. He supposed he didn't know where to run, or what to run from.

Still leaning with both hands on the door, he tried to master himself. Khalid and Jaheira would come for him. In the mean time, he would have to be strong. Like Jaheira. Like Gorion.

A familiar smell lingered around the door. What had Khalid said?—Sandalwood.

He braced both hands and pushed and the door gave a whine and swung in. He stepped inside.

"I am pleased that you could join me," said Semaj.

The room behind the door was no larger than the cell he had left. It had been cut haphazardly out of the rock, and the floor, walls and ceiling stood at odd angles to each other. Sitting cross-legged on the bare floor was the man who had risen out the river. The top of his bald head rose to Felix's waist. Between them, a white linen sheet was spread, and on it was a banquet.

"These are not my quarters," said Semaj, circling his twig-like hand in air. "I am not a resident. I have merely made it my own for the moment. Nevertheless, I offer you my hospitality."

Felix stood motionless in the doorway, looking at him with an utter lack of comprehension.

At least a dozen silver dishes sat on the linen between them. Smoke curled invitingly from cuts of chicken, lamb and duck, all smothered in bright-colored sauces. They were no dishes he had seen before. The smell was divine. He realized, though, that there had been no trace of it on the other side of the door, only the smell of sandalwood.

"Sit," said Semaj. "Break bread with me. Then we will talk."

Felix tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. Keeping his eyes on Semaj, he sat in the same style, his legs crossed with his feet behind him. It was surprisingly painful. For Semaj, it seemed effortless.

"Who are you?" he said.

Semaj gave a mild, polite smile. "You jump straight at the largest questions. You are a man who is not content with ignorance." He spoke softly, musically, with an accent Felix didn't recognize. "But though such curiosity befits you, I insist that you drink first."

He reached out his hand, and again, Felix was impressed by how frail it seemed. He lifted a silver carafe and held it out for Felix to take. Felix stared at it. It was full of water, clear as a crystal.

"No," he said.

"No? You will not drink?"

"I won't take anything you give me."

He wondered if he was being foolish. He had nothing to gain by refusing; if they wanted to poison him they could have done already – but he remembered Xan's warning.

Semaj set the carafe down. "If you will not eat my food, then it is clear you do not trust me."

"That's safe to say."

"Then we have nothing further to say to each other."

Felix swallowed again. He had not known what to expect, but he had not expected the interview to end so quickly.

"Can I…can I leave?"

Semaj waved his hand, and gave another insubstantial smile. "Do I look as if I could stop you?"

Still sitting uncomfortably on his haunches, Felix looked at him hard. He searched for something besides a smile in the withered face. Then he had the sense, as he had on the raft, that he was not looking at a real person.

Semaj's eyes were too clear, too fixed. The way he moved was too easy. There was no appearance of muscle underneath his skin, or thoughts in his eyes. It was only his own mind that gave the thing in front of him substance: seeing something that resembled a smile, he remembered other smiles, and himself clothed the illusion in the shape of reality.

Although there was no apparent danger, his heart had begun to hammer in his chest.

"I won't drink the water," he said, "because there is no water."

Semaj's expression didn't flicker. "What else have you deduced?"

"There's no food, either."

"What else?"

"There's no _you_, either."

"And yet," said Semaj, with another meaningless smile, "somehow, you are certain that _you_ exist?"

Felix was silent.

"You may go," repeated Semaj.

"It's all a trick. I don't believe anything."

"_Selah_: unbelief is the root of all true knowledge. Belief is the negation of truth. You may go."

Still watching Semaj, Felix got to his feet. Now his legs ached, and although he knew the water was an illusion, his thirst was still very real.

"I don't know what part you have in this," he said. "But I know you don't mean me any good. And I have friends, and they'll see you dead."

There was no flicker of reaction. Semaj was motionless and silent, as if the puppet that he was had been abandoned. Felix turned and pushed through the door.

He was standing in a high-vaulted marble corridor set with torches. His mind immediately filled with remembered knowledge: he was on the firth floor of the library in Candlekeep. Home.

He shook his head; he couldn't be home. It was all a trick. He shut his eyes and opened them, but the scene in front of him remained the same, clearer even than it had been in his memory.

Semaj's subtle, musical voice came from all around him.

"You are a victim of deceptions. Trapped in lies. But I will take you by the hand, as one leads a child, and together we will search for the truth."

"Get out of my head," said Felix. "I don't believe you. H-he warned me…"

"Warned you? Who has warned you?" Semaj spoke from the stone walls, from the torches and windows, sounding amused. "I warn you now. You may doubt, yes. Doubt all that you see, all that you hear, but what you hear in the depths of your own mind. It is not my mind you have entered. It is your own."

Felix passed his hand close to one of the torches. He expected to feel nothing, but it singed his fingers and he flinched. He almost expected Semaj to laugh, but there was no further sound from around him. He began to walk cautiously down the corridor.

He heard voices. They came from behind a wooden door, close by on his right.

"—mine to decide what is best for him," said a proud, young voice, a man's voice.

"It is _not_ for you to decide," a woman answered.

Felix stopped by the door. A foreign feeling of guilt came over him: he had no reason for it, but it entered him like something felt by another, a long time past.

"You are playing dice with the fate of millions," said the woman, whose voice was as proud as the man's, and bore a familiar accent. "I will not allow it. I will dash the child's head against a wall before I do."

"J-Jaheira!" said a third, panicked voice. "How can you speak this way ab-bout a living, a l-living b-being!"

Felix understood, with an awful sinking feeling, why the accent was familiar.

"You say he is living, but death is bred in his bones," said the woman—he could _not_ think of her as Jaheira; it was all a trick, an illusion—"His life means a million deaths, perhaps more. He is an affront to all that lives and all that is holy."

"Don't speak of him that way," said the first man, and Felix knew who it must be. He had heard the voice before, but not until it was older, gentler, wiser. Now it was fierce and headstrong.

"You defend him as if he were your son! But he is not your son, my friend. Nor is he properly _her_ son. He is the bastard spawn of an unspeakable evil, and nothing of _her_ is in him, no matter how you might wish it."

"Do you say I would endanger all the world for simple sentimentality!" yelled Gorion.

"I do say it!" Jaheira shot back. "Give my the child; I will put an end to this!"

Felix had sunk on his hands and knees outside the door. He understood why: it was in this position he must have overheard the conversation, however many years ago.

"P-please, dear, s-sweetheart—"

"One side, fool! Surrender the child, Gorion. For your own sake."

"I say you will not have him! I count you my friend, Jaheira, but you have lost your head over this, and I will not allow you—"

Felix let out an audible whimper. The voices inside the room ceased immediately.

After a moment, the door creaked open. A young half-elf stood looking down at Felix, his small face stained with tears.

"Oh d-dear," said Khalid.

"What is it?" said Jaheria. "What are you gawking at?" She appeared at his shoulder, looking down at Felix, her younger features suffused with anger.

When she spoke again, it was in a changed voice. "Eavesdropping, eh? Wicked boy."

There had been a change. Nothing was the same. Felix felt light-headed, and found himself unable to stand or speak.

Khalid's face had hardened. "Wicked, wicked boy."

"Dash his brains out," said Jaheira, whose mouth had curved past the limits of a possible smile.

"Tear him apart," said Khalid.

Gorion appeared between him, forcing them both aside. He seemed taller than he ever could have been, and in the center of his forehead, gleaming like a jewel in a Calimshite's turban, was a bloated, bulging third eye.

He spoke in an awful parody of his younger voice: "I have reconsidered. It was I, after all, who lost my head, old friend. Let us put an end to this little beast. It would be – merciful."

In the moment before he reached out, Felix regained his legs. He sprang up, running haphazardly away down the corridor, his lungs exploding with held breath. Footsteps clattered behind him.

"Get him!" Gorion cackled. "Catch him!"

Felix came to another, broader door, and threw himself at it. It had not been locked, and he stumbled through into darkness. It slammed behind him.

The darkness was cool and merciful. He leaned against the door, fighting for air.

"_Selah_," said a voice in the darkness. "The unraveling begins."

"Unraveling," said Felix, his mind racing around itself. "Unravel me. That's what you're trying to do. Unravel me. Kill me."

"Kill you, acolyte? I am unraveling falsehoods. When I am done, only the truth will remain. It will remain as emptiness."

"I'll kill you," said. Felix. Then more loudly: "I'll kill you!"

He blundered into the darkness, reaching for his sword, but he had no sword.

The darkness vanished as if a lamp had been lit. He stood outside, in the damp cave tunnel. The iron door at his back. He was free.

He took off down the corridor, unmindful of any guards he might encounter. If he could get back to the cell, lock himself in it, he would be safe…

He rounded a corner and found himself in the short, low-ceiling tunnel walled with thin iron bars, the cells on all sides. He counted four of them. In the nearest one on the right, he saw the purple-robed form of Xan.

"Thank the gods," he moaned, and clutched the bars. "Let me in, Xan. Let me in." He swallowed. "Please."

Xan was leaning over the prostrate form of the boy. He looked up, seeming unsurprised when he noticed Felix. "He's dead," he said.

"What? No…"

Xan hauled the body away from the wall. The boy's face was still, his eyes shut.

"It isn't so," Felix said weakly.

"It's so." Xan yawned. "Only a matter of time, really." Then he plunged his hand, when its long, dirty fingernails, into the dead boy's chest and tore off a lump of meat. He stuck it in his mouth.

"Xan." Felix stared through the bars. "Xan, what are you doing?"

"Eating him," said Xan, and opened his mouth to reveal double rows of daggerlike teeth. "What the bloody hell does it look like?"

A third eye opened in the middle of his forehead, the same pale blue as the others. It stared through the bars at Felix and blinked once. Felix groaned, turned his back and ran.

Xan's voice pursued him, thick from chewing: "In case you come back, I'll try to save you a bit! But I'm not promising anything!"

Felix stopped in the middle of the empty corridor and screamed at the top of his lungs: "_I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you_!"

No answer. Water dripped, somewhere nearby.

He threw himself on the floor and beat on it with his hands, kept beating until his palms were raw and blood began to run down his fingers. He ran at the wall and dashed his head against it: then he woke up.

He was lying in the cell again, his cheek on the cold damp ground. There was no sign of Xan, or the boy; he was alone. He lay back and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. His body shuddered of its own accord, as if gripped by aftershocks. Breathing slowly, he tried to gather his thoughts.

_It's over_, he told himself. _Over._

Light footsteps came from outside the cell. He straightened up quickly, rubbing his eyes and blinking.

A familiar figure came into view, and he could have died from gratitude.

"Jaheira!" He flung himself at the bars. "I knew you'd come. Get me out of here, please; I can't take any more of this. I really don't think I can."

Jaheira walked with an easy strut. Whatever trials she had overcome to reach him, not a hair was out of place on her head. In the soft glow of the torchlight, smiling down at him, she was more beautiful than ever.

"Patience, child," she said, and gave a throaty laugh. "You have waited stoically quite some time; I think you can wait another minute."

"Yes, yes," he said, and licked his lips. "Sorry…just, please…"

She stood by the bars, glancing over them, and tapped them with her finger. "I must say, I don't think much of these accommodations."

He attempted to laugh. Their eyes met, and she smiled.

"It is – good to see you again, truly it is." She drew closer, pushing her hands through the bars. "There were moments when I feared you were lost to me."

"It's g-good to see you to. Please, just get me out of here; you don't know what they've been doing…"

"Felix." She caught his eye again. "Look at me. Yes. Come closer."

Swallowing, he obeyed. He stood on the other side of the bars, near enough to smell the tannin on her leather.

"While we were apart, I had some time – to consider one thing and another. And I have come to a decision."

He looked at her blankly.

"I have certain _needs_," she said, smiling mischievously, pressing herself against the bars. "Needs that Khalid, Silvanus bless him, can no longer satisfy." Her hand slipped through the bars and touched his shoulder. He caught his breath, but allowed himself to be drawn closer, until only the bars separated their bodies. His heart pounded, but he could not feel hers…

"Felix, it is time I took another lover," she whispered, her tongue flicking between the bars. "Come, put your arms around me…I will show you things…"

He threw himself back, falling against the wall.

"You're fake. Fake!"

Jaheira laughed. "Really now, what a thing to say! After I offered so sweetly…But I cannot be angry with you; you are too dear to me. Come back, and let me forgive you…"

He remained trembling against the wall. As he watched, as he had expected, a vertical slit began to appear across Jaheira's forehead. A third eye opened, mad and dead, staring down at him.

She sniffed. "You would refuse me? Very well. I see you are not the man I thought you were. You may rot here, for all I care."

She turned, and with a more pronounced swagger, began to walk away.

"No…Wait!" He lunged forward, but she was gone. He lay on his hands and knees, tears falling on the dust underneath him, and the smell of sandalwood began to fill the air. He shut his eyes.

_Please_, he begged his mind. _I can't take anymore. Just stop it. Stop it. Stop it. I'll do whatever you want._

"It will not stop," said distinct voice, faint and musical and amused. "You will do what I want, and it will not stop."

He began to beat his head on the floor, trying to stop the voice. The pain was real. Just as it became unbearable, he shuddered, and he awoke.

Again he lay on the floor of the cell. Again he was alone. This time, though, there was an object on the ground in front of him, a shining piece of silver in a brown leather scabbard: his sword.

He got to his feet and lifted it. Somehow it felt real, although he had no trust in the walls around him, or the air he breathed. The handle was cold and solid between his fingers. Feeling a thrill, he drew it. The blade flashed in the light like fire.

He walked out into the hall, the blade in one hand, scabbard in the other. He was determined to kill whatever he came across, if it had Gorion's face or Imoen's. He would make _something_ feel some small part of the pain.

At the end of the hall, wrapped in a silver mist, stood a figure in armor. Its outline was indistinct. All he saw were two yellow eyes glinting under its visor. It held no weapon; its jagged hands hung at its sides.

Felix raised his sword and leveled it at the figure. "You will be first," he said, in a voice that no longer shook. "And I—" he brought back the tip of the sword to point at himself—"will be last."

It spoke in a voice that was somehow beautiful, deep and cultured and resonant: "Brilliant. Come at me with everything you have."

Felix ran at the figure, silently, with sword drawn. It made no move to defend itself. There was no sound. Almost before he knew it, he stood over the motionless fallen body, gripping his sword, as blood soaked out around his ankles.

For a moment he felt alive and victorious and at peace. Then his right arm filled with a blistering pain, as if the bone had caught fire inside. The world around him wrenched. He felt the sword drop from his hand, then darkness and light swirled around him and he fell.

In the space between, he heard laughter. It was not the mocking, omniscient laughter he had expected before, though, but a very human laughed, abrupt and surprised.

He awoke, and as real air filled his nostrils, thick with an ironlike scent, he knew it was for the last time.

He was kneeling in a pool of blood. His sword lay a foot away, half-submerged, and he was looking down at an old man dressed in rags who had been sliced open diagonally across his back.

He looked at his hands. They were died red up to the wrists.

"This is surprising," said Semaj, and although his voice was still faint and musical, it seemed to come from nearer than before. Felix was sure he really heard the man for the first time. "An interruption has come from a most unexpected source."

"S-s-source…?"

"Your blade in powerfully enchanted, acolyte," said Semaj. "I have not seen such dweamors in all my many years. Most fascinating. And who could have foreseen that it would come to your aid, as it were…?"

Felix heard, but he did not understand. All his mind could process was the ragged body in front of him.

"Wh-what, what h-have…" _What have you done_, he meant to say, but instead it came out dully: "What have I done?"

"Struck a powerful blow against the desert," said Semaj. "_Selah_: your blood begins to stir. All may not be lost."

"I killed him," said Felix. "I killed him, didn't I?"

"He was nothing!" said Semaj, with a flicker of anger. "Concern yourself with _that_ no longer. But you have pleased me." Now his voice softened. "Yes, pleased me greatly. You are a fascinating study."

Felix looked up. He was again in the small room of crooked angles, behind the iron door. There was no linen tablecloth, though, only Semaj and himself and the bloody corpse, and of course his sword, drawn in earnest for the first time, half-submerged underneath the blood.

"There is no punishment," he said slowly, looking at Semaj, "in all the earth, or in any of the hells, too terrible for you. Do you—" he choked. "Do you understand?"

Semaj smiled back at him. His teeth were small and very clean. Like his voice, his body now had a substance, an ordinary reality, that it had lacked before. Felix knew that now he could reach out and strangle him.

"I understand much," he said.

"I didn't kill him," said Felix. "You did."

"Continue to say this, if you truly believe it."

"I hate you. From the bottom of—my soul, or whatever I have, I hate you."

"You rake me with harsh words, but I will give you a gift." Semaj continued to smile. "For your most eager cooperation, you deserve a reward. I am your benefactor and you will learn this."

"Benefactor," Felix spat. He had grown used to the smell, even the texture of the blood around his legs. None of it seemed to mean anything. Even his hatred of Semaj was something hollow, existing in-and-of itself. He knew that Semaj had done something monstrous, but he could not even begin to comprehend it.

Semaj sat in the same strange position. "Name your heart's desire."

"I wish you dead."

"Name another."

"I want to go free."

"Name another.—I would grant your wish, but I am bound to another. He wishes that you not leave."

There was a silence. Smiling more widely, Semaj reached behind his back and lifted a silver, two-handled chalice, full to the brim with water. Felix could smell it: this was no illusion.

"Perhaps this will suffice?"

To take it would be a betrayal, he understood that. Freed from the thirstless worlds of pain, though, a familiar pain had begun to return to him. It would be so easy to reach out and accept it.

Then a simple, amusing thought occurred to him: Semaj would not let him die.

"I refuse," he said. "But I know what I want. And I know you can do it."

"Speak, acolyte."

"I want you to help the boy."

Semaj's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"The boy. The one who was in the cell with me. I want you to help him. Make sure he doesn't die." He smiled back, putting all his bitterness, all his fury into the gesture. "You _can_ do that, can't you?"

Semaj looked as if he had swallowed something bitter, but soon recovered. "Very well. You are a fool, but I would be petty to refuse. And I am never petty. I would only impress upon you how great a fool you are, to wish to continue in any part this vapid cicle of death and rebirth."

Felix looked back at the old man. He was lying facedown, a wisp of beard escaping to one side of his head. The man would never get up. Felix never wanted to get up.

* * *

It seemed like days since he had been removed from the cell. They dragged him back and threw him inside and he lay motionless, wanting to kiss the ground. The bars rattled shut, and a moment later Xan was leaning over him. 

"I say. I say. You alright, Master Lightfoot?"

"I've got blood all over me," said Felix, and laughed. He laughed and laughed, looking up at the ceiling.

Xan wrinkled his nose. "Bit of an understatement, I'd say. What did they put you up to, killing chickens with your bare hands?"

"No. Not chickens," said Felix.

The room was spinning around him. He waited for it to stop.

"Xan. Thanks. Gave me. Good advice," he said. "Oh god. Oh god, what's happened."

"You're delirious," said Xan, sighing, as if he had known it along he would be. "Sleep it off. You'll feel better in the morning. Or you won't; I don't know."

"Xan wait. Wait."

"Yes, Master Lightfoot?"

Felix tried to lift his head, but exhaustion had finally caught up with him. He couldn't move. "Is he here? The boy who was…?"

Xan raised his eyebrows. "Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Not a minute ago he sat up and started talking. Babbling like a maniac. He's asleep now. You know it sounds mad, but I really think he might have recovered a little. Just like that." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Tougher than he looks, the little chap. And he looks tough, mind you."

"Good," said Felix. "Good."

Then he shut his eyes and fell into sleep as if from a great height.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Xan Graycloak

Elf

True Neutral

Enchanter: Level 9

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Ardennor Crush

Favorite Weapon: Moonblade

Favorite Spell: Blindness


	18. What the Thunder Said

Felix drifted in and out of lucidity. Xan sat by him, dripping gruel and water into his mouth, and after several hours he recovered.

The boy was awake. If he was pleased to be alive, he didn't show it: he sat in the corner clutching his knees to his chest, gray-faced, his filthy brown hair almost covering his eyes. He wouldn't speak.

After Felix had described his encounter with Semaj, Xan turned to the boy, saying reproachfully: "This fellow saved your life; I don't suppose it would hurt to show a bit more courtesy."

The boy whispered something. Xan didn't catch it and leaned closer; he repeated more loudly: "He should have let me die."

Charred handprints still covered his chest. Feeling ill, Felix realized that he might not have been clinging to life as doggedly as they had assumed. He had reasons for wanting to be elsewhere.

There was no sun to mark the day's passing, and either a long time or a short time later, Felix and Xan began to talk again. They talked of things past: Xan of his home, the Elven fortress of Evereska, Felix of his travels and his companions. He said little of his reasons for taking to the road, and Xan expressed no curiosity, but he spoke at length of his admiration for Khalid and Jaheira, and his fondness for Imoen.

"This girl, was she your – what's your word – 'sweetheart?' I always find these humans infatuations quite amusing."

"No," said Felix, seeming surprised. "I never did. And now that you say so, I – I don't properly know why. But I always considered her kin. A sister. Like me. Although I suppose, she isn't really like me at all." He colored somewhat. "I don't think I ever had – _those_ feelings for her. But why does it amuse you?"

"I don't know." Xan waved his hand, reminding Felix unpleasantly, for a moment, of Semaj. "You humans are so dead _serious_ about these things. Is it true you sometimes take your own lives over unrequited love?"

* * *

Later, Felix asked: "You miss it, don't you?" 

"Hmm?"

"Your home. Evereska."

"Give me three words to describe elves."

Felix paused, giving it serious consideration. "Graceful," he said. "Wise. Beautiful."

Xan counted on his fingers, rattling off quickly: "Arrogant. Inbred. Lazy." He glowered at the wall. "I think I prefer your sort. You humans have got the right idea. You live as if you might die tomorrow, and then you do. I imagine it doesn't seem quite so pointless."

"You mean life? But why?"

"Because," said Xan, with an odd expression, "because it's shorter."

"Huh," said Felix, because it was all he could say.

"No," Xan went on. "I'm not going back. If and when I get out of here – and it's not going to happen, mind, I'm thoroughly convinced I'm going to die in this fetid hole – if and when I get out, I'm going to go to Baldur's Gate."

"What's in Baldur's Gate?"

"Everything," said Xan. "Anything you could want."

"What do you want?"

"Well to begin with, I think I'm going to smoke so much black lotus I forget my given name, and half of my family name."

"Black – lotus? But that's illegal, isn't it?"

"Hmm," said Xan, very slowly and gravely. "I think you must have confused me with someone who gives a toss whether it is or isn't legal."

"The bandits trade in lotus," said Felix. "You've helped fight them, but you'll turn around and give them money?"

"That seems like it matters now. It does. But after you've smoked a bowl or two, you'll find it suddenly doesn't."

"That's awful."

"Well, if you find the idea so objectionable, you should be quite pleased we're both going to die down here."

They were silent a while, the Xan said expansively: "Now aren't we being stupid! Trapped down here, facing sure death, and we're quarreling like a couple of schoolboys. I tell you what. I'll make it up to you."

"It's all right, Xan," Felix said tiredly.

"No, I'll tell you what. When we get out here – and of course we _will_ get out of here; of course your friend are going to come galloping in on white winged horses and save us – you and I—" he clapped Felix on the back—"are going to go down the Undercellars—"

"The Undercellars?"

"The happiest place on earth," said Xan, with a distant smile. "Been there once before, and really I shouldn't have left. You and I will go down there and we'll have two pipes of the finest-quality lotus – on me, I assure you – and then we'll spend the night with the two most beautiful courtesans in the city."

Felix blushed.

"Their names are Felicia and Xania," said Xan, and giggled. "They're sisters."

"Xan," said Felix. "Are you all right?"

"No, I think I'm staring to lose my head," Xan said cheerfully. "I really have to get out of here. Tell you what," he said, at once serious. "I suppose it's only a matter of time before they drag you out of here again. And if you survive, I suppose it's possible our Sembian friend will grant you another little favor. To show you where your allegiances ought to lie."

Felix glanced at the boy, who still refused to stir.

"What do you want?" he said.

"A book, that's all.—Not my spellbook, no, I can't imagine he'd give _that_ up. He's not that stupid. A book on Sembia. Lars' six-volume _Sembian History_, Peckett's _Ethnography of Eastern Sembia_, something in that order. Though I don't suppose he'll have one on hand. And of course it'll occur to him we're going to try to use it to undermine him, won't it, but perhaps his arrogance will be his downfall. It's worth a try."

"You think it will tell us – how to fight him?"

"Hmm, yes, in a way." He spoke excitedly now. "You see, I might not look it, but I know quite a lot of magical theory. I spent ten years of my life as a scholar, more or less. I'm familiar with most types of enchantment and divination magic, but I don't quite understand how this Semaj fellow manages to do the things he does: he creates flawless illusions and bypasses mental defenses effortlessly. We all have mental defenses, you know; even a peasant stands a chance to resist a Domination spell; but Semaj seems to have found a way to get around them.

"There must be a trick; a hidden lever somewhere. A clue, that's all I need, a clue. Then it should all fall into place. But I don't know," he said, seeming to revert to his usual dour self in an instant. "He probably won't cooperate. I suppose he's too smart."

"You're right," said Felix, "it's worth a try. I'll ask him." After a nervous hesitation, he added: "I believe in you. I believe you can do it."

"Oh, indeed," said Xan, but a certain glow remained in his cheeks, even after they had fallen silent.

Suddenly, surprising them both, the boy spoke. His head was still buried between his knees, and again Xan had to lean forward to hear:

"Sister."

"What's that?" Felix said.

"Sister," said Xan.

"Sister?"

"Sister."

"My," said the boy, and swallowed. His voice was hoarse. "My sister. I think she's. I think she's dead, but…"

"Yes?" said Xan. "What is it, mate? We're listening."

"If she – if she _isn't_, then…" He looked up for the first time, and his dull brown eyes met Felix's. "Could you. I mean. Could you please. I know I can't. Ask you for anything, but you please. Could you please."

He began to cry, silently, and lowered his head again to hide it.

"Of course," said Felix in a low voice. "Of course. I'll do whatever I can."

Xan scratched his head. "Feel a bit petty now, I suppose."

"No, Xan, I wish – if there were some way I could get both." He looked at the boy. "Fetch, what does your sister look like?"

"Skinny," choked Fetch. "Brown hair. Like mine. Not too long."

"Thank you," said Felix. "I'll do whatever I can."

* * *

It was some time, hours at least, before the guard returned for Felix. 

Feeling surer than yesterday (was it really yesterday?) in spite of what had happened, he wondered briefly if he could overpower the guard. Looking at the burly, leather-armored hobgob, he doubted it, at least not without more food and water. He felt light-headed when he stood.

Again the hobgob gripped him arm: "Master wants youse now."

Not _again_, thought Felix. _Now_, not _again_. As if for the first time.

He exchanged a knowing look with Xan, glanced at the boy, who had retreated back into his corner, and followed the guard. There was no need to be dragged along this time.

"Good," grunted the hobgob, after they had gone a short way down the corridor. "Youse cooperate. Youse live longer that way."

Felix wondered why the prospect of imprisonment no longer seemed so terrible, and why he was not afraid of the guard. He supposed the prison paled in comparison to what Semaj had shown him; there were worse prisons than the ones that could contain the body.

He tried to keep track of their surroundings, planning for his escape, but the long winding tunnels were all identical. He soon lost track of how far they had come, and contented himself with following. They passed other members of the Chill, who exchanged rough greetings with his guard, and from time to time another human. There was a tense atmosphere as if a fight were about to break out.

The guard stopped in an open doorway.

"A different master this time?" said Felix.

"Youse hold your tongue. Go where I says."

"Is it Davaeorn this time?"

Without another word, the guard turned his back and began to trundle away.

Again, Felix was left alone. If it was Davaeorn inside the darkened room ahead of him, he wondered why the Master's life was so ill-protected. Then, stepping closer, he saw the runes etched in stone inside the doorframe.

"Come through," said a rough, low voice. "It's safe."

He hesitated, but finally took a long step and passed through the door. He felt a twitch like a mild electric shock. Coarse laughter came out of the darkness.

"Ha! Ha! Didn't like that, did you, boy? You're lucky I invited you. Otherwise you'd be burned to a cinder. Ha, ha."

Felix stood in the circle of light that seeped in through the doorway. Davaeorn could see him and he could not see Davaeorn. That had been the intention, but his half-elven eyes had begun to make out the Master, where he sat in the darkness.

He saw a well-furnished study, all the comforts of home. A large, fleshy man, too large for the iron chair he sat on, like a topheavy buzzard hunched on its nest. Davaeorn sat leaning forward, his hands clutched under his chin. Even with his infravision, Felix had difficulty making out his face. He only saw that it was somehow deformed.

"Come a little closer," said Davaeorn. "Out of the light."

Felix stepped forward. Narrowing his eyes, he saw Davaeorn well. His face was twisted as if it had been stepped on repeatedly, and his eyes were greedy slits.

He was surprised to feel as calm as ever. Nothing about the sight of Davaeorn disgusted him, and even the knowledge that it was his massive hands that had disfigured Fetch failed to rouse his anger. He only felt a curious emptiness.

Yesterday, he had knelt over an old man's body and the man was dead. Blood had soaked his arms up to the elbows. He had never seen the man's face.

It was not that he felt he was no better than Davaeorn, not exactly. Standing in the darkness, looking at the Davaeorn's broken face that Davaeorn believed he couldn't see, he realized that he had been given an answer to the question he had asked on that day that now seemed seasons ago: _how are there men like Davaeorn_?

Semaj had shown him something in the pit of his own mind, and he knew the answer.

Davaeorn snapped his fingers and a tiny flame appeared on the end of his thumb. Felix expected him to produce a pipe, but he only held up the flame, staring past it, and their eyes met. Part of Davaeorn's face was visible in the dim yellow glow. His eyes looked entirely black. He examined Felix for a long time. Finally, he spoke.

"You see me?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do think?"

Felix paused. "I don't know what to think."

"Not pretty, is it?"

Unwilling to answer, Felix looked away, giving a slight ambiguous shrug.

"No," Davaeorn said. "Not very pretty at all."

"I suppose not."

"What's your name, man?"

"Felix. Felix Lightfoot."

"Felix? Means _happy_, doesn't it?" He chuckled to himself, then said abruptly: "You're just a boy, aren't you?"

"Twenty years," said Felix. "But I'm half-elven. If I were human, I suppose I'd still be a child."

He was astonished to hear his own level, patient voice.

"That's good," said Davaeorn, still staring past the flame. In the still underground air, it never flickered, and neither did Davaeorn's gaze. "You like being young?" he said.

Felix's puzzlement showed on his face. "I like it well enough," he said, then added, on impulse: "Sir."

"Polite," whispered Davaeorn. "So polite."

He snapped his fingers again, and the flame went out. The room was dark again. Davaeorn's low, hard voice came from the same place in front of Felix.

"When I was a boy," he said, "I liked to fly kites."

"Kites, sir?"

"Kites."

Felix's infravision reeled in the sudden darkness, and for a moment he could not see Davaeorn's face. He could not see if the man's expression was wistful, or ironic, or as intent and calculating as before.

"I'm a damned good mage," he suddenly added, as if it had everything in the world to do with the subject of kites. "I didn't learn it in some fancy-fancy magic school. I learned it in backrooms. In cellars. I have all my spells ready, all the time. I could kill you six different ways before you could bat an eye at me."

"I don't doubt it, sir."

"You don't, eh? Smart." He was silent for a moment, then he began to speak easily on an entirely different subject. "I grew up not far from here, you know. In Nashkel. Ever been to Nashkel?"

"My friends have been, sir. Not long ago."

It occurred to him that Davaeorn must have known. He had, after all, been Mulahey's associate.

"Mm. Not a pretty town. Glad to be shut of it." He stared past Felix, at the light in the open doorway. "One time I wandered too far out in the fields. At night. I was a bad boy. Wanted to see how far I could get. And I got caught in the storm. Terrible thunder storms in Nashkel. Amnish climate. I was out in the fields, and I knew lightning always hits the highest thing around—so what do you think I did?"

Astonished, Felix failed to answer.

"I made for the woods, of course," said Davaeorn, irritated. "I was running. Running through the forest, pell-mell. And the lightning and thunder all around me.—You ever stood in a thunder storm, Felix? Right in the middle of it?"

"I suppose not, sir. I mean to say I've seen them, but—"

"Not the same," said Davaeorn, harshly. "You have to stand in the middle of it. Right in the middle of it. Then you start to understand a thing or two."

He shifted his weight, seeming impatient, then he flicked his fingers again and the flame took light again. It burned brighter this time, growing larger, until Davaeorn's body and his throne were dimly illuminated. A flame as large as a torch burned in the palm of his hand.

In the bright light, Felix noticed what he hadn't before: a low iron table stood between them, cluttered with papers and a few scraps of tobacco, and near its edge lay a dagger. He examined it furtively, hoping Davaeorn wouldn't see. Its blade reflected no light, and he realized it was made of bone.

"You want that dagger, don't it?" Davaeorn said, and Felix jumped.

"N-no sir."

"Take it," growled Davaeorn. "Go on and take it. I want you to."

Slowly, his hand trembling, Felix reached out and lifted the dagger. He held it limply, unsure what was expected of him.

"I had a talk with Semaj about you," said Davaeorn. Now he removed a pipe, and the fire shrunk back to a tiny flame on the end of his thumb. He stuffed the pipe with tobacco, lit it, and forced it clumsily into the side of his rigid mouth. "A little talk."

Felix, holding the dagger, said nothing.

"You have a little secret, Felix," Davaeorn said, almost in a sing-song way, as if addressing a child. "A little secret for little boy."

Once again, dizzying and almost terrifying Felix, he seemed to forget the thought entirely. Now he looked at the dagger.

"That's a relic," he said. "A relic of a temple of Bhaal."

"Bhaal?"

"Bhaal." The word was a satisfied hiss. "Of the Dead Three. Don't you know your ancient history? And the Time of Troubles. Gods were made flesh and walked the earth."

The words stirred a memory, and a recent one. Almost involuntarily, Felix found himself reciting a passage of a chant, one he had heard the very day he and Gorion departed Candlekeep: "_The lord of Murder shall perish…but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny…_"

"Chaos," finished Davaeorn, "shall be sown in their footsteps."

He blew out an enormous, foul cloud of smoke, and for a moment his face was obscured. Felix coughed.

Davaeorn spoke through the cloud: "He stalked all over Faerun. Once a god, now a man. Can you imagine that? The terror of it. The terror of knowing that he would _die_. Him! A god! He stalked all over Faerun, and his own death stalked him. So he sired children. And who could blame him, eh? No one wants to die without a legacy. Not even a god.

"Do you know what this place is?"

"It's a mine," said Felix. "Isn't it."

"Ah-ha! Very clever. Clever, clever boy. Good boy. And what do we do in a mine, eh? We mine ore, of course. Everyone knows that. But I'm no miner."

Felix recalled Jaheira's words: _A merchant who trades not in gold or silver, but in human flesh._

"Oh, no," Davaeorn went on. "Rieltar set me to mining ore. Rieltar with the fine silk robes. Rieltar with the scent in his hair." He rolled the pipe contemptuously from one side of his mouth to the other. "You see this place. Not pretty, is it? Who would ever suspect that pretty-pretty Rieltar Anchev had a hand in it? Who would ever suspect that pretty-pretty Rieltar Anchev – had a hand in it with _me_?"

He thrust his face forward, showing it by the glow of the pipe. Felix saw the scars and bruises, the pits and tumorous lumps.

He dared to speak. "You hate him, don't you?"

"Hate – is a strong word," said Davaeorn. "But then again," and he smiled, "I _like_ a strong word now and then." He blew out more smoke. "But I have to do what Rieltar says. Why's that? Because Rieltar had a secret weapon. Rieltar has a son."

"His son," Felix ventured, "is the weapon?"

"Yes. Yes." Davaeorn seemed more lucid, now, his face forming again into a mask of shrewdness. "But if I had a secret weapon of my own?—What then, Felix? What do you suppose would happen then?"

"I suppose – you and Rieltar would be evenly matched."

"Yes. Ha, ha. Yes."

"And you wouldn't have to take orders from him anymore."

"Ha, yes! Yes!" In his excitement, Davaeorn blew out his pipe. He got to his feet in a sudden rustle of cloth. "I wouldn't have to take orders from him anymore. Oh no." He stepped forward, coming around the iron table, and stood in front of Felix.

It passed through Felix's mind that he still held the bone-bladed dagger, but he assumed Davaeorn was prepared for that contingency. He looked up at Davaeorn, who was a great deal taller than him, the top of his head nearly brushing the ceiling. Davaeorn looked down at him. He put his enormous hands on Felix's skinny shoulders.

"You could be brave," said Davaeorn, "and spit in my face, and tell me you despise me, that you won't have anything to do with me. Or you could be clever. And tell me you'll think on it.

"Be clever," he said. "Be my secret weapon."

Felix considered. All of Davaeorn's apparent ravings were forgotten, and a simple fact occurred: Davaeorn could protect him from Semaj. He was not sure why Davaeorn believed he would be a _weapon_ able to combat Rieltar's mysterious son, but for the moment, that was of no importance.

He bowed his head. "I have no love for this man called Rieltar. I accept your words in good faith," he said, "and I will consider them."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha!—Good boy; good boy!" Davaeorn clasped him around the shoulders, and Felix felt his enormous strength. That strength attacked his mind like a moral problem: his evil had not made him weak, or craven. He must have become a little stronger every day he was alive.

"Good boy," Davaeorn repeated, breathing in his ear. Then he stepped back. "I don't expect you to agree today. Not even tomorrow. Perhaps you even have no intention of agreeing, eh?—But you will think on it. You will think, and think, and in time you _will_ agree."

Again, Felix bowed his head. "My lord."

Davaeorn clapped his hands. "So that's that. That's that, eh? Back to your little hole now? Will you go back there, Felix?"

"If that is what you wish, sir."

"Yes, get you back. And quickly. You will remain there for now." Then, with sudden violence: "Don't think I trust past an inch yet."

For once, his mind seemed to pursue a thought to its rational conclusion. Glancing down, he saw that Felix still held the dagger, and snatched it out of his hand.

"I'll take _that_, boy. It belongs to me. But you deserve a treat, don't you? A little treat for being such a good, clever little boy…"

Felix's heart leapt. He had forgotten his promises, but now, looking into Davaeorn's glinting eyes, he remembered.

"A book," he said, on instinct, and instantly considered that of the promises he had made, another was surely more important; but it was too late.

"A book?" said Davaeorn, and owlish surprised look coming over his face. "Wants a book, does he? Very well. A book for my good little boy. To pass the time, eh?"

He waved his hand, and a lamp across the room took light. Davaeorn's eyes, apparently, were used to sudden changes between light and dark, but Felix was painfully blinded and stood rubbing his eyes. When he opened them again, Davaeorn was standing by a bookshelf on the other side of the low-ceilinged room. "Come," he said, crooking his hand. "Pick what you want."

Felix came forward. He scanned the titles quickly: spell manuals, bestiaries, and not a few books with unmarked covers that seemed oddly sinister. All at once his eyes settled on an eight-volume, leather-bound set in the middle of the second shelf from the top. The word 'Sembia' was embossed in gold on every spine. Affecting casualness, he removed one of the books at random.

_A History of Sembia_, he read. _H.L. Sturm. Volume IV. _

"Like your histories, eh?" Davaeorn muttered, largely to himself. "Clever boy. Likes books."

"I do, sir," Felix said honestly. Seeing the wall of books reminded him, for a painful moment, of home.

He opened the cover of Sturm's _History of Sembia_ and scanned the table of contents Wars of unification. Tribal society. Nothing that he imagined would be of any use to Xan. He replaced it and took down volume five.

"Sembia?" said Davaeorn. "That's where that pretty-pretty's from you know. Him and his pet mage, too…"

A chapter title leapt off the page: _Johl Gol and the Sect of the Three Eyes, or the Cult of Celestial Wisdom_. He slammed the book shut as if to trap the knowledge.

"This one, sir.—That is, if you please."

"Yes, yes, fine," said Davaeorn absently, already moving away. "And will that be all? Or would you perhaps—" he glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes gleamed unpleasantly—"perhaps my little boy would like a little something else?"

"What else?" said Felix, imagining that a little more water would do them all good.

"Books are fine. Books are nice. But books are dry, and dull, and I don't want you dull, my boy…How would you like a little companion, eh? A little friend? For the night? Give you a bit of fun?" He grinned, and metal teeth gleamed inside his mouth. "She's a good girl. She won't bite."

Felix stood clutching the book to his chest, trying not to gape at his good fortune. If it were possible—

"I'd like that very much, sir," he said faintly, trying to play the bashful part. Meanwhile his eyes watched Davaeorn as shrewdly as Davaeorn had watched him.

Again Davaeorn laughed, and again he strode quickly across the room. With only one lamp lit, it was still dim, and his shadow moved crazily over the walls. He stopped in front of a massive iron trunk.

Looking on, all Felix's joy began to evaporate. He began to wish ardently that he had refused.

The top of the trunk rose nearly to Davaeorn's waist. He put his hand on it, then dealt it a vicious kick, yelling: "Yah, Swallow! Shift your worthless carcass."

Felix put a hand in his mouth to stifle a moan. He had not been afraid, but now he began to be. A rustling noise came from inside the trunk, then Davaeorn put his hand under the lid and heaved it up. The smell of stale sweat filled the room. Very slowly, trembling so badly she nearly collapsed with every instant, a girl raised her head above the edge of the trunk.

Her eyes were as dull as Fetch's had been. She certainly skinny. Her hair was short and brown. There could be no doubt.

Trying with all his strength to keep his voice as level as before, Felix spoke: "You are very – very generous, sir."

"Bring her back when you're done with her, though," said Davaeorn. "She belongs to me."

* * *

When they had left, Davaeorn stood by the open trunk, an absent look in his eyes. He fingered a crease in his robes, crushing it flat. 

"I know you're there," he said. "Do you think I'm a fool? Come out."

The figure in the shadows remained still, making no answer. It could have been a shadow, flat against the wall. Davaeorn turned halfway toward it, looking at it past his hunched shoulder.

"And what did you think of that, eh? I bet you wanted him, didn't you, lovely. But you can't have him. He's mine now."

Now the figure spoke, in a dry, sexless whisper of a voice: "No. I have no interest in _him_ any longer. None at all."


	19. Moving

Taugosz Khosann was dead. The day before, they had hauled his body out of the river to find it already rotting inside its steel prison, the flesh puffy-white with parasites. Fish had eaten his eyes and tongue. Tarnor the Hatchetman, Khosann's Dwarven staff officer, had taken command of the garrison until new orders could reach them from the camp. It was understood that matters at the camp were in poor order as well. The orders would be a long time coming, or they would not come at all.

Tarnor walked along the tunnel toward the mess hall, holding a hooded lantern at his waist. Its beam fixed a human figure not far off, coming toward him.

"Who ye be! Identify y'self!"

The man raised his hands, saying clearly: "Edgar Fael, of Khosann's former honor guard, sir!"

"Ach, Edgar, s'yew," said Tarnor, rubbing a bleary eye with his free hand. "Be takin' a swing at me own shadder next, I e'spect. Come walk with me, boy, I'm goin' down fer a bit o' grub."

"I have orders—"

"Belay they orders, boy. Walk wit' me. I don't fancy movin' about these parts alone no more, I don't."

He walked past Fael, who fell into step beside him. "I think I know what you mean, sir," he added, after a nervous hesitation.

"Do ye, lad? No shame in't. Strange days, these are. First that Sembian comes, foulin' up the place wit' his smell-sticks. And the Master's gettin' stranger by the day; talks to hi'self all the time now. I've had just about near much as I can bear, boy, and that's t'truth, on me clan's name…"

Fael stopped dead. "D'you hear something, sir? Just now?"

Still walking, Tarnor laughed gruffly. "A fine joke, boy, bit ye don't joke on such things. Me nerves be worn thin enough without."

"No sir, I mean it. Something like – a shaking. In the walls."

"Could be the earth settlin'," said Tarnor with a shrug, and motioned for Fael to come along. "Quite draggin' they heels. Now as I was sayin'…"

Less than a yard ahead of him, the tunnel wall exploded.

A cloud of dust enveloped Tarnor and he leapt back, coughing; the lantern crashed to the ground and rolled. Behind him, Edgar Fael had already drawn his longsword. The lantern bounced twice and went on out. They were left in the dust-choked darkness, cursing and stumbling, until another light flared up ahead of them.

It was the delicate silver orb of a Cleric's light spell, held in the palm of a woman's hand. The woman stood on the pile of rubble that had been a seamless section of the wall. She wore leather armor, and her braided hair fell around her shoulders.

"My apologies, gentlemen," she said, smiling radiantly in the light of her spell. "Did I interrupt something?"

* * *

For the first time since he had been recalled to life, Fetch had moved from his corner. Now he lay with his head in his sister's lap, as still and quiet as before, but with his arms relaxed at his sides. The girl ruffled his hair, staring blankly ahead of her; she did not seem to fully comprehend that she was free. Her breathing was tight and shallow.

Like her brother, she wore only a colorless hemp shift. Around her neck, though, was tied a faded lavender handkerchief; a memento, perhaps, of happier times.

Xan sat with his back to the bars, cross-legged and painfully hunched, his nose buried in Strum's _History of Sembia_. His eyes raced over the text, and his fingers, weak from disuse, fluttered the pages as quickly as they were able. From time to time his lips twitched as he spoke to himself.

Felix envied him. He would have liked a book himself – _to pass the time_, as Davaeorn said. In Candlekeep, books had been passageways to incredible worlds outside the keep walls; he would have dearly welcomed such a passageway now.

There was still a slow, steady drip somewhere nearby. He wondered if it had been engineered specifically to tease them. The guards had grudged them no extra rations for their fourth guest, and Felix and Xan had both agreed to give her most of the water they had been saving from the morning's supply. That left them dry for the night, and the boy as well. Felix found himself wondering why, an hour ago, he had considered himself so fortunate.

Breaking his reverie, the girl spoke. Her voice was even weaker than her brother's, and although he had assured her from the moment they were alone that he only wanted to keep her out of Davaeorn's hands, she treated him as if he were another master.

"S-sir, if you please…"

"Don't call me that," said Felix, desperately. He rubbed his temples. To concentrate on her words took unusual effort.

"What do you intend – please forgive me. But, what is it – that you intend to do?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he said, as quietly as he could, so as not to frighten her.

"It's only that – well, sir, Davaeorn he said, he said he w-wanted me—" Her voice broke, and in her lap, her brother tensed up. "That he w-wanted me back by morning. But you say you want me to r-remain with you, and—"

"I haven't thought that far," said Felix, putting a hand on his forehead.

"I'm sorry, sir; I didn't—"

"Don't be. Please, don't be." After a silence, he looked at her. She dropped her eyes to avoid his gaze. "You're safe," he said. "You're safe; don't you understand that?"

The girl bit her lip. She didn't dare contradict him, but, feeling a senseless anger growing inside him, he began to understand why she was slow to believe it.

"I'm sorry," he said, leaned back, and covered his eyes again. "I'm just so sorry."

"Ah!" Xan said.

"Have you got anything?" said Felix, loudly. Even as he spoke, it occurred to him: supposing they learned some secret weakness of Semaj's, how would they confront him, when they were still trapped by iron bars and armed guards? And Davaeorn. Doubtful that his goodwill would cover an escape attempt.

Xan looked up, an almost manic grin contorting his face. He held up a finger.

"Have a listen to this."

"I'm listening already."

"_The classic system of initiation_," Xan read, "_as devised by Johl Gol himself, consists of thirty-four _sunna_, or steps. _Sunnas_ fall into a number of categories. Some are physical tasks, ranging from simply chopping wood to balancing on a narrow beam over various hazards. Other are riddles or words games; some are simple recitations of sect doctrine. The most cunning require an original mind to solve, the quality, according to modern-day sectarian Vellah Zam, most often lacking in initiates…_"

Felix found himself intrigued – it took his mind off his thirst, at least – but he couldn't help but wonder what the thirty-four _sunna_ of the Cult of Celestial Wisdom had to do with defeating Semaj.

"_The most notorious_ sunna," Xan want on, then pointed his finger at Felix—"and you should pay attention, because this concerns us—_the most notorious _sunna_ is the twenty-ninth, known as 'the breaker,' 'the doom' and 'the impassable mountain.' It is said to have upset the spiritual progress of more initiates than all other_ sunnas_ combined. Although, by the time the twenty-ninth sunna is reached, most supplicants are no longer mere acolytes but clerics and psionicists of considerable ability, very few pass on to attempt the final five sunna, the last of which no living man has claimed to surpass._"

He stopped and looked up again, seeming pleased with himself.

"What is the twenty-ninth _sunna_?" said Felix.

"It doesn't say. Apparently uninitiates aren't allowed to know anything about the _sunnas_ past the fifteenth – but here, this is the key bit. _Acolytes who fail 'the breaker' in an especially ignominious fashion are expelled from the sect forever. Such outcasts are cut off from their source of divine inspiration, and _often turn to other arcane arts in their pursuit of power—that's it, we've got the blighter!"

"You think he was an initiate? And he was expelled after he failed—"

"That is _precisely_ what I believe," said Xan, his eyes flashing, then they both fell silent.

"Hang on," said Xan. "Did you just hear something?"

Straining his ears, Felix nodded. He shifted his hindquarters closer to the bars. "Like a scream. Wasn't it."

"Wouldn't be the first time," said Xan, his excitement fading. "Plenty to scream about down here."

"But it sounded like a guard," said Felix.

"How can you tell the bloody difference? Everyone screams alike." Still, he continued to listen as intently as Felix, and they both sat bolt upright at another sound: steel clashing on steel, unmistakable. Across the cell, the girl looked up.

"It's them," said Felix, a crazy grin spreading over his face. "It's them; it's them. It's them."

"If I've told you once," said Xan, "I've told you a thousand bleeding times; that joke isn't funny."

"I'm not joking," said Felix, then he sprang to his feet and forced his head between the bars, looking around outside. Beside him, Xan got slowly to his feet.

"You don't really mean to tell me—"

"But I _knew_ they'd come; they wouldn't just leave me here," said Felix, then motioned Xan silent. Behind them, the girl had gotten to her feet, pulling Fetch along with her. They appeared more frightened then overjoyed. The sounds of combat were growing nearer. Then there was a loud, inhuman scream, and all sound stopped.

Xan was breathless. "If this is really what you think it is," he whispered, his fingers clenched between the bars, "then I hope that was one of _their_ lot and not yours…"

"It was," gasped Felix, "that didn't sound like—"

He fell silent. They both heard the footsteps, rapid and steady, approaching from the left. Fetch and Carry had joined them at the bars, standing deferentially back a few paces. Then a voice came, growing nearer by the second.

"—why we have to risk our necks breaking some runty half-elf _male_ out of prison. If he can't even defend himself, what use can he be to us?"

"He's my _friend_," answered a second voice. "Why do you think we're _here_ in the first place…?"

Both voices belonged to girls: the first was loud and rough, but still had a girlish tremor. The second was lighter, gentler, and exasperated.

"'Runty half-elf male,'" said Xan, again grinning ear-to-ear. He seemed to find it the most amusing thing he had heard in all his long elven life. "Eh, I think she means you, mate…"

First he began to giggle, then Felix; soon they were in hysterics, almost weeping.

"Felix is a good person," said the lighter voice. "I think you'll like him—"

"Aye, trollop. That'll be the day!"

"Look, Shar," said the lighter voice. "I'm a girl, right?"

"Yes," said the rougher voice, cagily.

"And you hate me, right?"

"I loathe you, you twittering ninny," Shar answered easily.

"So if you hate me and I'm a girl, couldn't you ever like a man?"

Shar didn't answer.

"Ooh," said Imoen, "this is so ro_man_tic…Shar going to rescue poor, distressed Felix from the clutches of the evil wizard…Somewhere out there he's waiting, saying oh, oh, when will my princess co—"

"That's it! Hold your tongue, wench!"

Still recovering from his fit of laughter, Felix put his hands to his mouth and shouted: "_Oh, when will my princess come!_"

The footsteps outside the cell, close by now, came to a dead halt. There was silence. Xan began to laugh so hard he doubled over.

"Imoen!" Felix yelled "Imoen, hey! This way! This way! You're almost here, oh gods, hurry up…Get us out of this hellhole…"

Xan managed to recover enough to cry: "Yes, yes, 'Imoen,' by all means! Save us!"

"Everyone, everyone; we're free! Free, _free_!" Felix spun around and kissed Carry on the lips. She cringed away on instinct, but there were tears in her eyes, and they were not from terror. She clutched her brother.

"No," she said, even as she smiled. "It can't be."

"Free?" said Fetch, goggling at him.

Grinning, laughing, Imoen bounded into view. She launched herself at the bars, and she and Felix clumsily attempted to embrace.

"Not to trouble you," muttered Xan, swaying on his feet, "but I don't suppose you two _servants of heaven_ happen to have a key on your persons…"

"Step aside," came a voice at Imoen's back.

Imoen stepped aside. Felix and Xan inched away, seeing the girl who stood behind her. Half a head taller than Imoen, dressed in patches of armor and spattered down most of her right side with blood, she was a grim sight of a rescuer. Felix had no trouble matching her voice to her appearance. Their eyes met, and he swallowed.

"_You're_ the little worm I had to march all the way down here to save?" said Shar-Teel.

"Yes," said Felix, calmly. "And I don't know you might be, but since we've only just met, I don't see why we should be on such bad terms."

"Well aren't you the fancy lad.—Get back from the door unless you want to get hurt."

Felix obeyed. Shar-Teel held a sword in either hand, one long and jagged-edged, the other short and smooth. She dropped the shorter one, holding the longer in both hands. "Waste of time," she muttered, then without warning made a broad diagonal swing.

The air sang, and a lump of metal burst away from the door. Felix glanced back to see Fetch and Carry cowering against the wall. Shar-Teel stood for a moment, breathing heavily, then gathered herself and bent and lifted her other sword. She cast an acidic look at Felix.

"Well? Coming or not?"

Xan straightened up, slinging his arm around Felix's shoulders. "You, m'lady, are the tree of life and the life eternal," he drawled.

Shar-Teel glanced back at Imoen. "And who's the elf? Another gormless male you somehow _forgot_ to tell me about?"

Imoen held up her hands. "I don't know him, honest!"

"Hmph." She gripped the door with both hands and hauled it back, and although its bars had covered only a fraction the space between them, Felix felt as if a solid stone wall had been shifted away. He was certain that he had never been so happy in his entire life.

"_Fe-_lix!" Imoen leapt at him and gripped him around the neck, her legs in the air; they nearly toppled over. Felix spun on his heels and they twirled around and around, and Xan and Shar-Teel stepped back to avoid being struck by Imoen's feet.

"I-mo-en I'm in your debt for ever and ever and ever and—"

"Wait, wait, slow down – ha – ha – got to tell you about – how we got here—"

Xan, looking on, remembered in a dubious light Felix's protests that he had never entertained _those_ feelings about the girl.

Shar-Teel walked past them with a disdainful expression. Glancing around the cell, her eyes fell on Fetch and Carry. "Children?" she said.

Carry got slowly to her feet, pulling Fetch along with her. At her lead, they presented Shar-Teel with deep bows.

"M'lady," said Carry, faintly, "we owe you our lives and – we owe so much, I can scarcely begin to understand…I have been a slave since I can remember."

"Are we free now, Carry? Are we?" said Fetch, tugging on her sleeve. For the first time in days, or perhaps since the day he was born, there was something genuinely boyish in the way he spoke.

"What _kept_ you so long?" Felix was saying, his face an inch from Imoen's, her arms still wrapped in a death-tight grip around his shoulders.

"Well it took us till noon to get to where the mine was—" Imoen recited breathlessly.

"I'm free," Xan muttered to himself, still clutching Strum's book in his right hand. "How is this possible? I mean how is this even possible? I haven't prayed to a bloody god in decades; can it be they just _decided_ to stop giving me the shaft in both ends—?"

"Then we got there and there were guards everyone and Jaheira said, we'll never get in it's too dangerous, and I said we can't just _leave_ him there and she said I _know_—"

Shar-Teel walked back past Felix and Imoen, again careful to keep her eyes averted, and Fetch and Carry followed her.

"—so she said we'll have to go around and I said how, there's a big wood _wall_ around the bailey, so we decided—"

"We dug a tunnel," Shar-Teel finished. "The druid had a spell to shift the earth, and the rest of us helped with pails. It was difficult going, and now that we've made it through at last, I find it was all simply to liberate _you_ from this feeble excuse for a prison so that you and that feckless wench could moon over each other."

"Come on now, Shar, we _told_ you that was the plan—"

Looking over Imoen's shoulder at Shar-Teel, Felix said: "Beg pardon, Miss. If it would please to know my name—"

"No it would not please me," said Shar-Teel, turning away.

"—then it would please me to know yours," Felix finished, weakly.

"_She's a bit stand-offish_," said Imoen, in a perfectly audible whisper. "She just kind of – _joined up_ after the fight. But she had this talk with Jaheira, and now she trusts her for some reason…"

"What passed between me and your leader," said Shar-Teel, facing away from them, "is none of your business. She has said she will allow my company; either you accept her judgment or you do not."

"I still wish you'd tell me something about it," said Imoen. "There's no reason we can't be friends."

Shar-Teel did not dignify the comment with an answer, and began to stalk away. Fetch and Carry stopped, looking back at Felix. Again they bowed.

"We are forever in your debt, m'lord," said Carry. "By the blood-laws, you would be our owner, and – whatever we can do for you, if it pleases you, we will do it."

"We aren't free yet," said Felix, and sighed. His eyes followed Shar-Teel down the tunnel until he caught himself, shook his head, and looked around. "Xan?"

"Yes, Master Lightfoot?"

"If we want to get out of here, we'll probably have to get through Semaj. Have you found out much?"

"Yes indeed. I'll tell you everything I've postulated as soon as we have time to spare, but for the time being, here's all you need to know. If you catch any sign of the bugger, _especially_ the smell, put your tunic over your nose and mouth and breath through it. That should help. Then one of us needs to take him out as quick as possible before he can start his casting."

"How are we supposed to do _that_," said Imoen, looking incredulously back at him, "when we're holding our tunics over half our faces?"

"That's not my line," said Xan. "All I can tell you is what would work best. Then it's up to our leader, here, to draft a plan."

Felix started. There had been no irony in Xan's words. So he was the leader, then. He began to smile – then a thought occurred, and he turned back to Imoen.

"Where's Jaheira, a-and Khalid?—They weren't right behind you?" Then with sudden panic: "They're alright, aren't they?"

"Yes, yes, they're fine! They said they were going after the mines-master, and they told us to look for you. The slaves told us the master was on the lowest level."

"That's right," said Felix. "And good. I know where to find them, if we can make it there in one piece…But Xan."

"Master Lightfoot?"

Felix ducked his head. "Really, please, you don't have to call me that. Listen. You're an elf. You've been alive several _times_ longer than I have. You tell me you're a powerful mage, and you know more than I do about – well, anything I could think of. Why shouldn't _you_ be leader?"

Xan seemed honestly surprised. "Heavens, boy. I'm just not the leading type. And as far as 'powerful mage' goes, I'm not worth a damn without my spellbook…I could manage a cantrip at the most…"

Shar-Teel, standing some way down the tunnel, glanced back and called: "Oy! Are you lot coming along, or not?"

"She likes Jaheira," Imoen whispered. "I get the feeling she could care less about the rest of us."

"She seems like a charming person," said Felix, wrinkling his mouth.

They set off after her, and she waited only a moment before resuming her impatient trot. They slowly caught up. It was the first time Xan had taken more than few steps in days, and Imoen had to support him. The children kept up gamely, if they still seemed deeply nervous. They passed several fallen guards: humans and hobgobs, and even a single gnoll, still clutching the broken shaft of its halberd. Felix shuddered at the expression on the animal death mask. It looked as if had died trying to snap at something in the air.

It was plain to see who had done the better part of the fighting: a few arrows protruded from corpses, but most bore the mark of a sword in their chest or stomach. Felix felt a chill. Shar-Teel looked scarcely older than himself, but she was an abler fighter than he suspected he might ever be. The blood on her side as not her own, and the only mark on her was a cut below her left shoulder. She had bandaged it with a strip of cloth cut from a guard's uniform. Now that he looked, there were other, older bandages on her body, that he had at first taken for part of her patchwork armor: two strips of leather bound around her chest, still faintly stained with blood.

He realized it was unseemly to examine her so closely, and he looked quickly away. As he did, a flash of metal caught his eye.

A stripe of black leather served for Shar-Teel's belt. Stuck in it, hung by its blue-white blade, was a throwing axe.

"Shar?" he called ahead, nervously.

"What gives you the right to address me by name, manchild?" she said without turning.

"And how else might I address you, then?"

She grunted.

"I only want a word with you."

"Very well; I suppose I won't grudge you a single word." She slowed, and the others passed her. Even as Felix approached, she refused to look around at him.

"It's only just, I noticed—"

"Five words, manchild," she said, and began to walk again.

"Now—hang on!" He thought, with dull irritation, that he had not survived the perils of the Cloakwood mines to be so disrespected by a near-stranger girl, no matter how fearsome a warrior. "Shar," he said, drawing level with her, in what he hoped was a friendly tone. "Like the goddess?"

"No. Shar is the name of a goddess of power and glory. Shar-_Teel_ is the name of a girl who was brought up in the gutter.—Was that your only question, manchild? Is this some feeble attempt to win my good graces?"

"No!" said Felix, and colored. "I only wanted to be friendly; my question is serious! That axe. Did you—this is mad, but I had a thought. By any chance, did you get it from a man with white skin?"

He had no time to react. In a moment, she had spun around and pinned him against the tunnel wall with both hands.

"_What do you know of him_?"

Felix sputtered. "A woman – a long time ago; I'd nearly forgotten; a woman in an inn – told me to beware of a bounty hunter. She said he had skin like milk, and a magical axe that returned to him after he threw it."

Holding him by the throat of his tunic, Shar-Teel grimaced. "I killed him. Were you his target?"

Felix nodded.

"_You_. I don't believe it. And what could there be about _you_, manchild, that would have anyone of consequence wanting you dead?"

His heels elevated off the ground, Felix looked back at her defiantly. "I've been asking myself that question," he said. "As soon as I know, you'll be the first I tell."

Shar-Teel glared back at him. She seemed to wish for some excuse to harm him, and, finding none, let him fall. She began to walk away.

"Wait."

"I have nothing more to say to you, manchild."

Scrambled to his feet, he hurried to catch her. "You can at least tell me what your business was with the man who tried to kill me."

"I don't owe you a gods-damned thing. _You_ owe me your life: the 'man with skin like milk' had you in his sights before he stopped to chaw on a stick of bladeleaf. That was my chance, and I stepped in and I took it. Perhaps I should have waited until he launched his bolt?"

"Exactly! So we're in this together. Why were you chasing him?"

"I wasn't chasing him, dolt; I was chasing another man."

"Whom you thought you could find through this man."

"_Yes_! Damn your eyes, yes."

"Who? What man?"

She quickened her pace. "I don't know his name."

"Then how will you know it when you find him?"

She turned her head, and looked at him hard over her shoulder. "Because he'll look like me."

They both stood still, and Fetch and Carry stopped with them, standing fearfully away. Ahead of them, Xan and Imoen cast quizzical glances back.

"Guys?" Imoen called. "We're weak; can't defend ourselves? Fighters?"

"Go on, wench!" Shar-Teel hollered back. "We cleared this way; you'll be safe! We'll catch up anon."

She looked back at Felix, and they regarded each other, saying nothing, for some time.

"Is your curiosity satisfied, manchild?" Shar-Teel finally said, biting off each word.

She turned her head and began to walk again.

Felix paused, looking after her, then said quietly: "I never knew my father, either."

"I wouldn't give a damn if you had twelve sires. You are my lightning-rod. If _he_ seeks you, and we kill his lackeys, in time he will come for you himself. And then I will—"

They were both cut off by a scream echoing down the tunnel.

Shar-Teel pulled Poker free of her bandolier, and Ripper from her belt. She sunk low, raising both blades, and peered at the darkness ahead.

"_We cleared this way; you'll be safe_," muttered Felix. "_We'll catch up anon_."

"Quiet."

"What are we waiting for; they're in trouble!"

Shar-Teel hissed him into silence, then began to move down the tunnel with measured, quiet steps. She gestured for him to follow. Vexedly, he did, and wished for his sword. Glancing back, he saw Fetch and Carry edging after them, holding hands. He tried to give the girl a reassuring smile, but instead his mouth formed into something weird and crooked.

Not far ahead, the tunnel widened into a long, low-ceiling chamber. He saw Shar-Teel approach the archway, then she froze and gestured to him again. He padded up – then the smell came at from all sides, and he seized his tunic and pulled it over the lower half of his face, feeling vaguely foolish. He joined Shar-Teel behind the jam of the archway.

The room ahead was an armory. Racks were laden with shields on the right wall, longsword and several bastard swords on the left. Surrounded by the dully gleaming metal were three human figures.

Imoen cowered against the wall. Her bow lay forgotten several paces away; she twitched and whimpered and scratched at her face. Xan was beside her, on his hands and knees, but he had remembered his own advice and brought up his cloak to cover his nose and mouth, as if he were nauseous.

Floating in the air in front of him was a slender, bald man dressed in faded robes.

"Where is my acolyte?" said Semaj. "You slaves are of little concern to me. Where have you left him; where have you hidden him? Or must I force the knowledge from your minds with pain?"

Felix breathed with difficulty through the rough crossweave of his tunic. A certain dread that he had experienced on the river, then again in the cell, was absent. He could that see that Semaj was only a wizard employing a levitation spell – and for all his secret knowledge, he had not detected his quarry crouching directly outside the room.

Felix stepped out into the doorway. "I'm here."

"Ah!" said Semaj, and smiled. "My friend. How I have missed you."

Xan removed his robe from his face for as long as it took to scream out: "Felix ! Don't let him _in_—" Then Semaj glanced down at him, and he collapsed.

Even as he spoke, Felix felt the _push_. He had not known what to expect. He had not been prepared, and it was through no act of will that he threw it off – it was a strong instinctive gesture, as if he had brushed a spider off his arm.

A physical sensation, like a finger feeling its way through his forehead, into the space beyond. Then he shuddered, pushed back, and it was gone.

Semaj's eyes goggled.

"_Impossible_," he hissed, and Felix and Shar-Teel ran at him together.

He was surprised, but not disarmed. He put up his hand and yelled: "_Rivaah_!"

Shar-Teel collided with nothing and staggered back. She stared at the empty archway, panting furiously, and ran at it again, and again she was knocked away by a door that did not exist.

Semaj's eyes narrowed. He pointed his finger and spoke another command. Shar-Teel choked and fell to the ground, insensible.

"_Selah_," said Semaj. "Weakness to the weak."

Felix looked at Shar-Teel's crumpled body. He reached for her sword, but as he took his hand from the tunic, it began to fall away from his mouth.

Semaj cackled. "What will you do now, acolyte? What do you hold at greater value: your defenses, or your weapons?"

Felix felt a tug at his elbow. His heart exploded and he spun around, ready to strike at whatever enemy had flanked him. Carry stood in front of him, her hand on his sleeve. He gaped.

"Are you mad; get back! Get well back!"

"M'lord," she whispered, and loosed the faded lavender handkerchief from around her neck. She pressed it into his hand. Their eyes met, and she nodded.

"Turn and face me!" said Semaj.

Felix turned, pinning his tunic with one hand, the other holding the handkerchief behind his back. "I'm not some toy to amuse you," he said. "I'm strong; strong enough to resist you."

Semaj glanced at the Imoen, Xan and Shar-Teel, then, with a thin smile, back at Felix. "Stronger than your friends?"

Felix's eyes had followed Semaj's to Shar-Teel, and a calming thought occurred. The girl was breathing. There were many complex arcane spells in his knowledge that could send a person into an instant, death-like sleep, but also a simple spell commonly granted to clerics, called _the command_.

That was all his opponent was. Flesh and blood.

Again, Semaj leveled his finger, and again he spoke the word. Felix felt a twinge like a sudden vertigo, but the next moment he still had his senses; the spell had failed.

He reached down and caught up Shar-Teel's shorter sword and hurled it through the archway. Semaj waved his hand, sending it crashing against the rack of shields, but Felix had gained a moment. He folded the handkerchief and fastened it around his head.

Semaj hovered forward, waving both hands as he chanted an incantation; a red light flickered in his eyes. Felix caught up Shar-Teel's longer sword with both hands and vaulted through the archway.

Semaj reared back, too late. The sword cut the air an inch in front of him, shearing through the necklaces heaped on his chest. A shower of beads and trinkets burst away from him and rained on the ground. Felix kicked them aside and stepped forward, swinging again.

This time Semaj shot away, floating on his cloud of air. Alarm flickered over his face for the briefest instant, quickly concealed.

"You have become stronger. Perhaps you begin to learn."

They faced each other, Felix with the sword raised over his shoulder, Semaj with his withered hands on his kneecaps. Then the mage smiled. "But why do you do battle with so vulgar a weapon, acolyte? Surely your soul revolts."

"If that's the best you can do," said Felix, "trying to _argue_ me into putting down my weapon, I'd say I've won. Give up now and—I'll try not to hurt you."

Semaj laughed. "I did not speak of abandoning _your_ weapon, acolyte. I spoke of abandoning the weapon of another, and taking up that which is truly your own."

His hand reached into the air, and with a sudden violent motion cast something that skittered across the ground in front of Felix. Felix leapt back, imagining some Sembian throwing weapon; but when he regained his senses he recognized his own sword, lying in its scabbard at his feet.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Semaj, he knelt and reached for it.

"Fool," said Semaj. "I only wish to show how little I fear you. Your arm has strength, of a kind, and quickness, but your mind is feeble and slow. Would you match the speed of your arm against your own mind, acolyte?"

Felix lifted the sword. As in the vision, its weight was familiar and comforting; remembering the vision, though, he remembered its terrible results, and it occurred to him that he might have spilled the first drop of blood on the Kara-Turan monk's sword. In his mind, he prayed an apology.

He hung the sword in its proper place at his belt, spread his feet and faced Semaj. He gripped the scabbard and put his right hand on the hilt.

"Come on," he said. "Come on, you hateful murdering, nonsense-blithering lunatic goblinspawn. Come on."

A smile began at one end of Semaj's mouth and slowly crossed to the other.

"A brave stand, Acolyte," he said. "But is your opponent—"

Felix blinked, and the space where Semaj had hung a moment before was empty. On either side of him, nearly out of his field of vision, two identical smiling images hovered side-by-side.

"—truly in front of you?" finished the figure on the right.

The figure on the left began: "Or is he perhaps—"

A voice from behind his left shoulder: "—behind you?"

On the right, behind: "—or beneath you?"

"Or is he perhaps—" said the figure on the right, ahead.

"—within you?" came a final voice, directly at his back.

Felix stood with his back straight, looking between the two images ahead of him. He shut his eyes.

All five Semajs spoke in eerie unison: "Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. _Selah_."

They began to chant.

Khalid had taught him that a warrior need never consider more than four opponents at once. In close melee, only four opponents could close, their comrades replacing them when they fell. Felix supposed he had never considered a situation such as this.

When he had asked what best to do when surrounded on all sides, Khalid had answered grimly: "Pray." There was a sequence, he explained, to strike opponents on all four sides with only three blows, but it was difficult for a novice to grasp. A far better solution was to avoid being outflanked in the first place. Out of dozens of attempts, Felix had executed the maneuver successfully only three times.

Semaj was weaving his spell. Only a hex of incredible power could take such a time to chant. Felix swallowed, breathed in through the handkerchief and drew his sword.

He drew with his right and spun right, swinging over his shoulder and cutting the image behind him clear in half: it vanished.

_One._

He checked the blade and swung up the other way, slicing through the image behind him on the right—

_Two_.

—then swung around in an even semicircle, running his sword through both Semajs that hovered on his left, finishing in a wobbling crouch.

He breathed out.

The blows had been weak, undisciplined, but he had struck every image but one. Directly in front of him, Semaj grunted in indignation: his spell was lost.

Felix looked up and his eyes flashed, and he ran at Semaj with the sword held at his side. Semaj spat out a shorter incantation, two hard-sounding Sembian words, and snatched at the air. A polished stone appeared in the palm of his hand. He wrenched back his arm and threw it.

There was a cracking sound and Felix stumbled. A pain, not unlike the pain in his arm that had ended the vision, now shot through his leg and it went out from under him. He caught himself on his elbows, blinded and deafened by pain.

"_Enough_!" said Semaj.

A dark blur filled the air over Felix. He was too dazed to follow, but when he next looked, blinking through tears, Shar-Teel stood where Semaj had stood a moment before, gripping Poker in both hands.

"I don't believe it! The goatlover _vanished_!"

"Yes," said Xan, coughing, as he rose to his feet. "He's a mage. They have a tendency to do that."

"Is he still here?" she demanded, glancing in every direction. "Invisible?"

"I don't believe so; you see the spell's worn off on me and ah, Imoen here…"

"Felix!" said Imoen, running to him.

"I, I, I'm—fine," he said, through gritted teeth, as he tried to stand.

"Oh Corellan's mercy, Master Lightfoot, your _leg_!"

Felix looked down. His right leg was bent back at the knee at an uncomfortable angle and blood ran down to fill his shoe. Seeing it, the pain somehow redoubled, and he gave a faint scream and collapsed again.

Xan covered his face. "Our bloody luck; and not a cleric in sight. We're never _really_ going to make it out of here, are we?"

"Quit your moaning, elf," said Shar-Teel. "We don't need a damned cleric; I can fashion a splint."

"Oh dear. You'll forgive me if I hesitate to put my faith in your medicinal powers."

"More fool you. Now _hold still_, manchild—"

Felix groaned. She removed a handful of long birch sticks from a pouch at her belt, then pulled the handkerchief from his face to bind it.

"Saving those for myself…" she muttered as she worked. "Wouldn't waste them if I didn't have need you…"

Carry entered the room, Fetch remaining determinedly behind her, so that only the top of his head was visible over her shoulder. She held her hand at her throat.

"Is he – is _it_ gone finally, sir?" she asked Xan.

He sighed. "Finally, I sincerely doubt. I suspect he was only toying with our boy."

"Sir?" said Fetch, from behind his sister. "Pardon, but – why did you have him bind his face?"

Xan smirked. He lifted Strum's book from where it had fallen on the floor, and said lightly: "Gather 'round children, storytime…"

"There," said Shar-Teel. "Keep it straight; don't put _any_ pressure on it. That's twice you owe me now." She left Felix sitting, clutching his splinted leg, looking helplessly after her.

"_As recent initiates lack the peace of mind to engage in deep meditative exercise, the masters sometimes employ jhossweed, or 'monk's tobacco,' a plant that acquires potent narcotic properties when bur_—I say, wondergirl, where do you think you're going?"

"On," said Shar-Teel, standing in the far archway.

"And I suppose you expect Master Lightfoot to just – crawl after you?"

"What _he_ does is his business; I've done more for him already than I care to."

"He's got to get on somehow."

"So have the girl help him."

"She's got to help _me_! I haven't walked this far since they threw me in this hole; my legs are a pair of bloody twigs! And since Master Lightfoot weighs a good deal more than my malnourished self, I'm afraid I must insist that the stronger of your two able-bodied persons—here, back me up on this, group leader."

"I don't think she'll listen to me, Xan," Felix muttered.

"Look," said Xan. "I'm not asking you to make love to him; all he wants is your shoulder."

"Fine!—To put an end to your blithering, elf, I'll help the fool." She stalked back, sheathing her swords. Seeing the murderous look in her eyes, Felix almost wished she had gone on. She reached out a claw-like hand. "Get up, manchild."

"Look," he said, as she pulled his arm roughly over her shoulders, "I'm not any happier—_ow_. Any happier about this than you are."

She closed her eyes and shuddered. "Don't talk. You make it worse."

"Come now, it can't be _that_ awful, can it?"

"The touch of your greasy flesh makes my skin crawl," said Shar-Teel.

"Well beg _your_ pardon, Miss," said Felix, rolling his eyes. "You didn't seem to mind when you had me pinned up against the wall back there—"

"Aw," said Imoen, clasping her hands. "Look at you two…"

"Wonderful," Xan said dryly. "Now can we get on, perhaps? For a moment I deluded myself into believing I might actually see the light of day again."

Felix and Shar-Teel glared at one and other.

"Fine," they said in unison, and began to move; a single, ungainly three-legged unit.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Felix Lightfoot

Half-Elf

Neutral Good

Kensai: Level 4

Strength: 14

Dexterity: 17

Constitution: 15

* * *

_AN: Thanks, MordorianNazgul!_


	20. Duel: Three

AN: FINALLY.

* * *

"Hold," said Jaheria, putting her arm in front of her husband. She raised her hands and chanted, looking ahead at the door.

The runes set inside the doorway glowed red briefly, then white, then vanished from the stone entirely, leaving it smooth.

"W-w-ell spotted, dear," said Khalid, wiping his forehead. "D-don't know what I'd do without you…"

"Wither away and die, I expect," said Jaheira, sweetly. "Now. Shall we dispose of our dear Sir Kirth, once and for all?"

They exchanged a glance and a smile. His shield hand fell below his belt, and clasped hers briefly. Together they stepped through the door.

The room was dark. "_Miur_," said Jaheira, raising her hand, and the globe of her light spell filled it. It was only her imagination, she knew, excited by combat and the subterranean confines, but she thought that the shadows moved back reluctantly, like droves of foul black insects.

A military cot stood against one wall, and a huge dark form lay on it. Davaeorn woke with a start and heaved himself upright.

"The devil—" He rubbed his eyes. "Guards; guards! What is the meaning—"

"Your guards are dead," said Jaheira.

Davaeorn recovered quickly. Sitting on the side of the bed, he peered at her, suddenly unsurprised. He began to smile.

"Ah. Ah, ha. Old friends. Old friends dropped by for a chat, eh?"

"Tell me, Kirth" said Jaheira, taking a sauntering step across the room. "How many times must we kill you, do you think, before you have the common decency to remain among the dead?"

"Jaheira," he said, in a tone as easy and mocking. "Always check for the body, eh? If you haven't seen the body, how can you be sure? And as you see—" He spread his hands. "Here I am before you, right as rain."

She studied his mutilated face with ill-disguised horror. "You seem to me, Kirth, to have a singular disability to take a suggestion. Surely a man as shrewd as yourself must realize when even the gods wish him dead."

"I have lived my life by one principle," said Davaeorn, "and never strayed from it. 'The which does not kill me—" He stood, at once becoming enormous, like a bird of prey spreading its wings. "'—only makes me stronger,'" he finished, standing a head over both his guests.

Khalid stood by the door, his scimitar drawn; Jaheira had moved across the room and marked him with the end of her staff. Together they hemmed him in. He stood with his back to the cot, unarmed, but there was no trace of fear anywhere about him.

"Got a few new tricks up my sleeve since we last met. Oh yes," he said, pulling on one of his voluminous sleeves. "New tricks, new friends. I'm glad you stopped by. I'm a bit out of practice. Kill you, then Rieltar – with the spawn and the shadow lady on my side, he'll fall easily. As for the pair of you, ah, well—I'll pick out a nice urn for your ashes, eh?"

Jaheira gave an oddly genuine smile. "Ah, Kirth. We're old hands at this game, aren't we?"

"Eh? Game?"

"Talking," she said.

"Ah." Understanding, he returned her smile, and his silver teeth flashed. "Well then. Shall we get to business."

The three stood looking at each other. No one moved. Davaeorn's head turned slowly from Khalid to Jaheira, then back again. He reached into his robes.

Khalid lunged forward but Davaeorn was quicker. He cast a pinch of ash at his feet and bellowed "_kha salaad_!"—the floor around him flared up in brilliant, waist-high flames; Khalid stumbled back. The shadow that he cast reared over the ceiling, jumping and dancing crazily.

Jaheira began to chant. Inside his flameshield spell, like the victim of a religious burning, Davaeorn began to chant as well. Her small, quick hands glowed white; his widely flailing hands flew off red sparks and his enormous voice filled the room. Khalid waited, gritting his teeth, for Jaheira to dispel the shield, but she had begun her casting a moment too late. Davaeorn finished, and the world exploded.

There was a sound and a smell and pain. Khalid's vision flashed white, then he was lying on floor smelling his own burnt skin, his armor sizzling around him. His sword had leapt from his hands. The lightning bolt rebounded again and again, smashing against the walls with the boom of concentrated thunder; striking bookshelves that took light, raining burning scraps of paper across the floor; nuzzling the iron chair and writing-desk. In the center of it all Davaeorn stood unharmed, an invisible barrier flashing around him whenever the thunder struck it. He stood and watched and laughed, his huge chest heaving. Finally the lightning dissipated. The air was thick with the smell of frying meat, and a sizzling noise persisted.

"_Sivaah_," said Davaeorn.

Across the room, the doors of a standing cabinet burst open and a long black shape shot through the air into Davaeorn's hand. The staff was worked with runes, invisible along its black surface.

Khalid leapt to his feet. His face was singed and his armor still smoldered, but he leapt to the right and snatched his sword up from where it lay beside the table. Its leather grip had burned black.

Davaeorn swung down; Khalid parried with both his sword and shield, trapping the staff between them. Grunting, Davaeorn wrenched back, but Khalid held fast.

"Hasann's youngest, eh? Funny that. I don't recall you growing a spine."

"You h-have yourself to thank," said Khalid through gritting teeth, slowly rising to his feet with Davaeorn's weapon still pinned. "Y-your evil gives me st-strength to fight. As long as there are people l-like you…"

Davaeorn released the staff. Khalid, surprised, was thrown off balance by the effort of holding it and reeled backward; Davaeorn lashed out and caught his wrist.

It looked, for a moment, as if he had meant to keep him from falling.

"_Rai sukh_," he said.

Bright white fingers of lightning surged down his arm and up Khalid's; the warrior gasped and his body, blown backwards, flipped over the table and landed in a sizzling heap across the room.

Davaeorn staggered as Jaheira's staff struck his legs. Getting to her feet, healed as if unharmed, she swung again.

"_Fah_!" Davaeorn roared over the crack of their meeting staves. "Insects! All of you!"

He was far stronger than Jaheira, as soon became apparent. She stepped back, able to do little more than parry and dodge, until her legs reached the edge of the table; then she leapt up onto it. Taking the sudden advantage, she swung down with all her might: Davaeorn was forced to block, and their staves locked.

"How does it feel," said Jaheira, breathless, "to look your death in the eye?—To know that all of your power, all your wealth, was gathered for naught? It will do you no good where you'll be going presently."

Davaeorn didn't answer. His left hand slid lower on the staff until its fingers brushed a rune; then its entire length began to hum and shudder.

"Supposing you're wrong?" he whispered. "Supposing I'll be a king in the next life, too?"

He brought his staff across in a short quick motion, with hardly any power, and Jaheira watched astonished as her staff snapped cleanly in two. She recognized the striking enchantment too late. Davaeorn brought the black staff down over his head and in a ridiculous cowardly impulse, allowable only in the face of death, Jaheira shut her eyes.

The blow never came. Instead there was whistling sound, like an impossible underground wind, and then a crash.

She opened her eyes. In front of her, on the floor at her feet, six feet of merciless power had been felled in an instant. Davaeorn writhed in a pool of his own blood. It took her a moment to comprehend what she was seeing: his legs were missing below the knees, the robe slashed through, and he was bleeding his life out at an incredible rate. The pain was too immense to even allow a scream. He clutched his staff to his chest as if it could save him.

Jaheira had never seen such a powerful blow – at least, from the man whom she knew to be responsible.

Khalid climbed to his feet, supporting himself against the wall. He held his blood-slicked scimitar in one trembling hand. Together, they looked down at the body of Davaeorn Kirth.

In his death-throes he had forgotten them. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes big and lucid, searching for something there; his misshapen lips formed a string of words, inaudible. Three, perhaps four. Then his tallness shuddered and he went still.

"I-i-is he…?"

"One way to be sure," said Jaheira.

Where it had not been blackened by the lightning, Khalid's face was gray. He nodded and fell back on his knees and rammed his sword in Davaeorn's chest. More blood ran out, more than it seemed even that great body could have held. Khalid kept his weight on the blade until it slowed to a trickle. Then he stood.

There was no sound but the smoldering of Davaeorn's wrecked possessions.

"That was a studied blow," said Jaheira, quietly.

Khalid looked down at Davaeorn's calves. One of them lay against the table, like a log that had rolled there; the other was still attached by a thin string of flesh to the leg above it. He went paler.

"I d-did that? B-but I only meant to—to strike one leg, to knock him off balance…"

"It seems you don't you know your own strength. I must say, I am impressed."

"W-what shall we do with the—?"

"Leave it to rot," said Jaheira, stalking away. "You think the man deserves a proper burial?"

The thought passed briefly through both their minds: although the body between them, seized in its rictus, was clearly dead as dead, they had thought so once before.

"I d-don't suppose he kept a ph-phylactery…"

Jaheira shook her head. "I feel it. His life is gone. It was half-gone already…His ties to this world, to his soul, were weakened already. I think that we killed a part of him when last we met. Perhaps a demon took up residence in that empty place: though it hardly seems he could have grown more evil than that slaver in Calimport, what I have seen today has made me sick to the pit of my stomach. We have surely done a service to all creation in destroying this thing."

"N-nevertheless," said Khalid, and hesitated. "It somehow feels – as if it i-isn't over."

Jaheira waited. She allowed him to hear the silence, the peace. Soon all the long tunnels would be silent and deserted, no longer full of the anguished cries of miners. Davaeorn was dead, and some evil spirit had died with him, that force that gave the shadows in the mine their unusual density.

"It is over." Jaheira looked at her husband, bruised and bloodied but still on his feet, the salvation of fivescore mine slaves: thin and shaking, but when swords were drawn and backs to the wall, the bravest man she knew. She stepped across Davaeorn's body and stood in front of him. "Your caution is wise, but methinks you worry overmuch," she said, drawing nearer. "Now kiss me, you fool."

He did not need to be told twice. In all their armor, standing on the blackening scrim of Davaeorn's blood, husband and wife embraced. Their bodies fit smoothly one into the other, two halves of a whole. Khalid still trembled, and Jaheira held him in her iron-strong arms until he grew still.

"G-gods," he whispered, sounding dazed.

"You meant what you said," she whispered in return. "Didn't you?—That looking on the face of evil gave you strength to fight."

"That," he answered shyly, "a-and you.—It sounds quaint, I know, t-terribly quaint. But I would not be the man I am—would not be a man at all, hah, hah – without your love – my d-dear."

She gripped his face with both hands and smothered with in a second, deeper kiss, until it seemed as if his skin (the color of sand) and hers (the color of earth) would meld into a single, flowing river…

Khalid stiffened and gasped. She paid it no mind, pulling him closer still, probing the depths of his nervous mouth with her tongue – until she tasted the bitterness of iron.

She jerked away.

"Khalid. Khalid, what is the matter?"

She stared at his face, a finger's length in front of her. He stared back at her, amazed. He opened his mouth and a trickle of blood ran out the side.

"Khalid." She repeated his name, almost angrily, as if to demand from him an explanation: how could he have been so inconsiderate as to allow this to happen?—Then he staggered against her, grabbing her shoulders, and attempted to speak but he was past speech. His legs went out and he fell, dragging Jaheira along with him.

Her breath coming in quick short gasps, she struggled out of his arms. The room was as empty as before. There was no sign, no shadow, not even the sound of breath or footsteps. She stood, glanced furiously around, then looked down again and saw the bone-bladed dagger protruding from his back.

He looked up at her, and his lips attempted vainly to form a word: "J-J-J"—there was nothing else. His pale blue eyes turned up in his head, then closed.

Jaheira flung herself at Davaeorn's body. She realized the next moment that it lay the same as before, in the same awful rictus, but dealt it was a strong kick all the same. The dead meat jumped. There was no sound.

"S-show yourself!" she screamed, in a deep choked voice. "Coward! "

Silence.

Then, in a wheedling almost-voice, a pale, cold imitation of human speech, came a single word: "_Nakt_."

Two lamps in the room were lit; Davaeorn had lit them when he stood. Now they went out in unison and the room was dashed into absolute darkness.

"_Miur_!" Jaheira screamed quickly.

Her spell flooded the room with the light of ten lamps, blinding and searing. Blinking through it, she made out a dark shape against the wall between two ruined bookshelves, a human shadow cast by no human being. It stood frozen, fixed by the light. Then it struggled and stepped out of the wall. Shadow became dark substance.

In that lunatic moment, a fragment of Davaeorn's ravings returned to Jaheira—_with the spawn and the shadow lady on my side_—and a horrible understanding flooded her mind.

The shadow stood and regarded her. It spoke again, in the same weightless voice like a death-rattle: "_Ia_. Cyric is great and just. He seats his friends on the bones of their oppressors, and casts his enemies into the dust."

Jaheira stared, her mouth expanding and contracting. "Y-y-y—"

"Pain," said the shadow. "So much. I burned inside my skin. And I will return it all one hundred fold, one thousand fold, in the name of my lord help-of-murderers, help-of-patricides, Cyric the great and most-exalted."

"You are dead," Jaheira whispered.

"Neria is dead. I am a fury of the hells, sent to bring you misery."

Anyone looking on the shadow would have been hard-pressed to say what it was, or had once been. It had skin like dark scales, but it gleamed like metal because it was truly metal, melted and fused and run together. Its face was a mask crudely fashioned out of wood, a slit for a mouth and two dark eyes.

"I cast myself in the cold, cold river," it said. "Cold fire. Cold-burning. And it pulled me under and I was drowning, burning, but I cried out to my god – and I was heard."

"Basest of the base," said Jaheira, softly. "Vilest of the vile. Woman without grace or light."

She dared not look at the body—_he could not be dead, surely not_—and kept her gaze fixed on the thing in front of her.

"You find yourself wronged, druid?" said Neria. "You find _yourself_ wronged? Look on what I have become at the hands of you and yours. Look."

Her hands, like scrabbling insects, rose to her face. Her movements seemed clumsy, but they came in violent starts that suggested restraint. As they fumbled over her mask, the hands, trapped in their clawed gauntlets, wanted to lash out, to wreak havoc and violence. She gripped the mask and tore it away with a sound like grinding millet.

Jaheira looked. She set her mouth.

"Villain," she said, her voice as hoarse and faint as Neria's. "You deserved far worse."

"And you will _have_ far worse, slave!

"No, the pain will not end.

"It will worsen unto death."

So spoke the shadow: then it gathered itself and sprang.

* * *

**Neria Swalloweye**

FAVORED OF CYRIC

Cleric: Level 6

Shadowdancer: Level 3

Strength: 19

Dexterity: 19

Constitution: 19


	21. The Waking

When she leapt, Neria's arms and legs pulled back against her body and she became a howling blur of dark metal.

Jaheira took one step back. Her heel found the end of Davaeorn's staff and she stepped down hard; it sprung up, leveraged over his body, into her hands. In a moment, she found the rune of power and swung.

It was like batting a rubber ball. The staff struck Neria and smashed her aside, sending her small, light body against the wall where it rebounded with the horrid shriek of metal on stone and hurtled back at Jaheira, striking her in the shoulder and knocking her out full-length. Her body fell over Davaeorn's.

Neria stood up, snapping her joints. For a moment she resembled nothing so much as an enormous chitin-covered, double-jointed insect. Her clawed hands uncurled.

Using the staff for leverage, Jaheira sprang up. She had it leveled again before Neria closed. They stood, both breathing heavily, and reassessed each other.

"You think I have wronged you?" panted Jaheira. "But at what price your vengeance? You may be alive but you have lost all right to call yourself human. You are less a human being than—_that_ creature, there." She cut her head at Davaeorn.

"He was a fool," whisper-sung Neria. "Too many irons in the fire. I – have only one aim now…"

They both stopped at a voice in the doorway: surprised, faint, and not a little confused.

"I say. What the bloody hell is _this_?"

Keeping one eye trained on Neria, Jaheira turned her head. A thin elf stood in the doorway, dressed in a tattered robe, his mouth hanging open. Behind him stood Felix and Shar-Teel, craning their heads to see.

The sight of the boy's face should have made her glad, but instead a profound and inexplicable sadness came over her.

"Jaheira!" said Imoen.

"Khalid?" said Felix.

Neria shifted her weight in an instant, without a sound, and flung herself at Xan.

Although tired, starved and giddy with sudden freedom, Xan came to his senses in a moment. Even as Neria's feet left the ground he held out his hand and shouted: "_Sivaah_ Moonblade!"

Jaheira's eyes were hardly quick enough to follow what happened. A small blur shot through the air, quicker even than Neria, and Xan caught it easily and pulled it apart and the air was filled with blue-white fire. He swung. Neria rolled back, giving a scream like a hissing kettle.

Xan stood gasping, holding an unsheated blade that glowed like a fragment of a star. Its sheath lay on the ground by his feet. Neria stood well back of him, trembling as she scrambled upright.

"Oh my god," said Felix.

Xan smiled tightly. "Lucky guess."

Neria clawed at a bookshelf to keep her feet. Blood ran in a twisting rivulet over the contours of her armor-skin. Then suddenly she was still, and her breathing stopped altogether.

Xan and Jaheira, both clutching their weapons, watched her.

She shook her head. When she spoke again, it was in a changed voice: "Interesting."

It took Jaheira a moment to realize what she was hearing. It was a man's voice that now issued from the mouth-hole of Neria's mask.

"There are quite a few of you, now," said the man, and Neria's body was motionless. Then the head moved slowly, mechanically, glancing down. "Well, one less, anyway."

Jaheira flinched.

"In any case, I will meddle no more at present. The matter is of little concern to me, and I would be loathe to attract – attention."

"Who are you?" said Felix, loudly, but Xan seemed to guess something he had not. The elf's eyes were wide. Gripping Felix's arm, he said slowly:

"Master Lightfoot, invoke the name of your god. By Corellan and the Tree we are in more trouble than I could have _conceived_…"

Jaheira, of a similar mind, called out: "Silvanus! Protect thy servant now!"

Neria, in her now-deep, silvery male voice, laughed and said: "Did I not just say that I was leaving? You flatter yourselves. I have other matters to attend to. Yet—" Again, she glanced around at the ruin in the small room, more than it seemed it could have contained: blood and bodies, splinters and embers. "You have done my work today. I suppose I should be pleased." Her empty eye-holes rose to look directly at Felix. "And I have no doubt you shall, in the future, do my work with a vengeance.

"Good-bye."

Then a whisper, a change in the air, and the black body became a shadow again and sunk against the wall. Jaheira moved to strike but too late: in a moment, there was no sign Neria, only the ordinary shadows cast by the stuttering lamps.

"Mercy," Xan breathed out.

Felix looked from one adult to the other, frantically. "Who was that?—What was that?"

"Cyric," said Jaheira, dully. "The Black Sun. Speaking through his servant."

"I concur," said Xan, still shaking. "You know it when a god addresses you."

The crowd in the door had begun to shuffle forward, Shar-Teel, Felix and Imoen following Xan, Fetch and Carry following Felix. Jaheira stood motionless, leaning on Davaeorn's staff. They all stood together, looking, seeing, drawing their own conclusions, and a long moment followed.

The room was the end of many stories. No one who stood there that day was unaffected, or unmoved.

Fetch and Carry looked at the contorted body scarcely recognizable as the Master. His hands, with the staff torn from them, were contorted over his heart as if his last action had been to clutch greedily at something just beyond his reach. They were too stunned to be happy. In the narrow world of their lives, Davaeorn had been a god, the all-father of gods, and his death was as inconceivable as it was joyous. Joy would come later. For the moment, their dull shock was the same as Felix's, Imoen's and Jaheira's.

Only Shar-Teel looked around with indifference, seeing only blood, a sight she was well accustomed to. She let Felix down when he tried to move, and he crawled forward on his hands and knees.

Jaheira moved slowly across the floor to where Khalid lay. Her face was expressionless.

Khalid's eyes fluttered open.

"I-I-I-is she g-gone?" he asked, a feeble joke at his own expense, as if he had been playing possum.

Jaheira should have felt a mad hope; instead there was nothing. Some internal part of her knew. There would be no second chance.

"Khalid!" Imoen exclaimed, and ran to him. "Oh, you're alright!" she said, trying to hug him around the shoulders.

But Xan stood by the iron table, handling the bloodstained, bone-bladed dagger. "The sacred relic of a mad, dead god of evil." He looked at Khalid, shaking his head. "My friend, I—I honestly don't know what to tell you."

"He's _fine_!" said Imoen tightly. "We can heal him; Jaheira has _spells_—"

But Jaheira was silent, holding her husband's hand. Imoen grabbed her shoulders.

"What're you waiting for, huh? _Heal him_! Heal him heal him heal him! Heal—"

Not unkindly, Jaheira shrugged off her hands. "Silence, child," she said quietly.

Felix sat back, clutching his hurt leg, watching.

"While you are yet with us," said Jaheira, whispering now, "is there—is there anything you wish to say?"

Khalid's eyes seemed to slide in and out of focus; suddenly they settled on Felix.

"F-Felix?"

"I'm here, Khalid. I'm right here."

"C-c-come closer. Will you?"

Felix shuffled closer, until Khalid looked directly up at him.

"F-F-F-Felix. W-we…you…"

Wordlessly, Felix took his other hand. Imoen was looking from him to Jaheira as if they had both gone mad.

"Thank you," said Felix. "I would be poorer today if – if we had not traveled together."

"That's g—g-g-ood…good to hear. F-Felix, I. I'm s-sorry, you k-know…"

"But Khalid. There's nothing to be sorry about."

"F-Felix, your…" Then, strangely, he attempted to move his head, and his eyes swung out toward Xan. He managed to raise his hand and made a pathetic gesture, curling the fingers. Although surprised, Xan understood. He knelt and handed Khalid the dagger that had pierced his back. Khalid accepted it without hesitation: he seemed to bear it no malice.

"No," said Jaheira, but there was no conviction in her voice.

"F-F-Felix," said Khalid, looking again at Gorion's ward, Felix Lightfoot, son of Leticia. "Y-y-y-our f-f-f-f—"

"No," said Jaheira.

Felix felt an impulse to stop him, to yield to Jaheira's wishes; he almost didn't want to hear what was about to be said.

"You f-f-f—" Try as he might, Khalid could not pronounce the word. His face was growing paler, and his lips trembled more violently. Far from seeming pained, a smile was beginning to spread over his face, and his eyes cut from Jaheira to Felix as he pronounced with something like rapture: "Felix your f-f-f-_a_—"

His eyes fell shut again. His lips, paralyzed, stopped making sound. Jaheira's eyes shut. Felix fell back, releasing the dead man's hand, looked at the ceiling and moaned.

He understood.

Vaguely, as if in a dream, he heard Jaheira speaking: "Silvanus…guide his soul to the light…send him to the end that he deserved..."

* * *

After that, the world became splinters. Waking later, he would remember scenes and glimpses, but not how his legs had carried him from unbearable encounter to the next. He must have moved on his own, but it had been as if in a trance.

He remembered—

A huge shining disc, like a metal sun, glaring out of the wall in front of him. He tried to comprehend what he was looking at it; what he was meant to do with it. Imoen shook his arm and repeated to him over and over until he finally understood.

The disc was a metal plug that held the water back. If it were opened, using a key that Fetch had found in Davaeorn's study, the river that had carried them this far would flood through the tunnels, purging everything.

He looked behind him, at the wraith-like bodies of slaves pressed rank on rank. For a moment he sincerely believed that he was in hell. Then he shook his head, and for a moment could think clearly.

"Yes," he choked, "do it! Flood it. Drown it. Drown everything. Do it."

Then there were patches of darkness. Movement. Shouting and singing.

The slaves teemed about in the open bailey aboveground, raising their arms to the heavens, embracing each other and weeping. Fetch and Carry worked together to support an old man – or a man who had come, through many hard years of life, to seem old – who looked at each of them in turn with tears in his eyes.

The sun looked hatefully down on everyone. Felix wanted to shoot it out of the sky.

Then there was sitting on the grass, in the cool, immense night, with the sound of crickets everywhere. Cool. Wet. Open. Free. He sat and clutched his knee, his splinted leg straight in front of him, and looked at the ground.

Far off in the forest came a keening sound, like a wild animal. He remembered, after pondering it for minutes, that it was Jaheira. She was out in the woods by the burial-mound she had dug herself, where they had laid Khalid to rest.

The memory returned to him over and over as he kept forgetting, and each time it was as painful as the time before. He brushed off hands and questions fluttered past him unheard. He sat on the grass, his head spinning, while Jaheira wailed a dirge in some ancient elven tongue that only Xan understood.

Xan was smoking a pipe. "Really," he said, "I'm sure he was a very brave fellow and all, but the woman _does_ carry on so."

"W-what're you _saying_?" said Imoen, in her now-hoarse way, angry but also puzzled. "It's l-like she barely cares at all! You saw the way she was; she didn't _say_ anything; she just carried him out there…Didn't say anything…Didn't even cry. Just said that little prayer, and s-singing this _song_ I guess is the first thing she's really done…I-I guess that's just her way, but—how can you _say_ she carries on?"

"You both don't get it," said Felix, and was astonished that he had opened his mouth. They were astonished as well. "You see…" he began; it was the first time he had spoken since they had come out under the sky. "Jaheira's – _half_-elven. Imoen, she – she'll have other lovers. She's been alive a long time. But Xan – she won't live forever. And Khalid, he – he meant a lot to her. I think."

Then he was lying down, feeling as if they were asleep but somehow still thinking, when a sudden awareness caused him to open his eyes and raise his head.

An unfamiliar female face hovered over him. It was not Imoen or Jaheira, and for a moment he was panicked—then he recognized the filthy blonde hair, the hollowed cheeks, the unsmiling mouth.

"You," he whispered. "What – what do _you_ want?"

Shar-Teel looked at him for a long time, kneeling by him. Then she said, with a quiet, smothered hatred: "No. I don't care if you never knew him. You _don't_ know what it's like."

Then she was gone, too, and he rolled on his side and blankly wondered why, why, why.


	22. End Part Two

**Part Two: Cloakwood**

_**End.**_

**Part Three: Baldur's Gate**

_**Beginning.**_

* * *

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"Hi, I'm Taugosz Khosann, right hand of the illustrious Venkt Nekrash, leader of the illustrious Black Talon Group.

"Now, like any red-blooded young male, I must admit that a great deal of my time is spent in contemplation of the fairer sex – or, as I prefer to say with a pronounced urban drawl, the lay-_dees_. However, until very recently, I was mocked and shunned for my foppish appearance and clumsy pickup lines. That all changed the day I discovered **Axe Body Spray**.

"You see, this revolutionary new breakthrough from leading cologne-ologists makes all social graces and appealing character traits obsolete! Just one whiff of **Axe Body Spray**and I personally guarantee the lay-_dees_ will be all over you! You see, **Axe Body Spray **contains an advanced chemical compound that acts on the inhibition centers of the brain, causing members of the female to gender to become 'wild' and to view you, you lucky devil, as the most attractive man alive, alike onto the Greek god Adonis! We call this the 'axe effect.' Yeah, baby!"

_Disclaimer: Axe body spray does no such thing. It's just some funny-smelling shit in a can. Now grow a brain, you libidinous idiot._

* * *

"Hi, my name is Angelo Dosan. I'm am member of the Baldur's Gate mercenary police force, also known as the Flaming Fist. 

Every day, I work hard to keep the citizens of Baldur's Gate safe from harm. Sure, sometimes I take a bribe or two, but what good cop doesn't? I'm not here to talk about that. I'm here to talk about **black lotus advocacy**.

"After a hard day of fighting crime, all I want to do is relax in the privacy of my own home with a modest pipe of lotus. Sadly, according to Grand Duke Eltan, my boss, I've just _committed_ a crime. Now I ask you, friends, what kind of justice is that? If it's a crime to find a little peace and tranquility in this fast-paced modern world, then, my friends, call me a criminal.

"Black lotus has never officially been proven addictive. It has perfectly legitimate medicinal uses. It also has many disregarded health benefits: for instance, if you're sitting in the Undercellars hopped-up on black lotus, unable to move, it's highly unlikely that you will get run over by a carriage in the street. I bet our illustrious Grand Duke never considered that. And it's a well-known fact that black lotus is one hundred percent natural, growing from the gods' green earth, so a person of any faith could only conclude that mankind was _meant_ to smoke it.

Write to Grand Duke Eltan. Demand legalized black lotus now. Address your letters to the Flaming Fist compound, southwestern Baldur's Gate, second floor, box 572…Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a pipe.

_Ooh_ yeah. That's the stuff."

* * *

"Hi, I'm Shar-Teel. You may remember me from such classic documentaries as _Men are Scum_ and _Down with the Y-Chromosome_. 

"Women! Are you tired of being pursued by lecherous losers whose strategic use of Axe body spray removes your inhibitions, causing you to make out with them in a wild buck frenzy? Too long has our proud sex been at the mercy of this scourge!

"That's why I personally designed this cutting-edge anti-male weapon for today's girl on the go. I call it – 'the axe.' It's a piece of molded, sharpened iron attached to the end of a stick, and I personally guarantee it will remove all unwanted suitors from your life! Just one sharp blow from 'the axe' and men are lying on the ground moaning in agony, bleeding profusely from a deep cut across their abdomen. We call this the 'axe effect…'"

Khosann (entering stage right): Hey, baby, do you know karate?

Shar-Teel: I am skilled in several forms of unarmed combat.

Khosann: Well, uh, you must be, cause your body is _kickin_'!

Shar-Teel (lifting 'the axe'): Allow me to demonstrate.

CENSORED

Khosann: Ah! Ah! Mercy! Mer—

/CENSORED

Shar-Teel (lifting the bloodstained 'axe' again): Shar-Teel brand axes. For all those times when 'beat it, creep' just won't suffice.

* * *

Deep-voiced Narrator: Grand Duke Eltan has made himself out to be an able leader, war hero and man of the people. _But_ _is he_? 

Angelo Dosan (cop on the take): Yeah, I served with Eltan in the Orcish Border Wars of '89. They say he was decorated for being wounded eleven times while dragging comrades out of the line of fire, but – man, I was there, and he got wounded like _ten_ times at most. And the tenth time was really just a flesh wound.

Davaeorn Kirth (slaver): Eltan is a _flip-flopper_! At first he encouraged Silvershield's new trade agreement with Sembia, but when reliable evidence emerged that it was dangerous, suddenly – _bam_, like that – he was against it! I don't want a leader who can't make up his damn mind. No sir.

Slythe (assassin): I'm not sure what I think much of Eltan's _morals_. Don't ask me why. I've never really heard much about his morals one way or the other. But once thing I'm sure about is I don't want an _immoral_ candidate for Grand Duke, and my wife doesn't, either.

Deep-voiced Narrator: Learn the truth. And vote Sarevok.

_This message paid for by the committee to elect Sarevok Anchev Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate. _

_

* * *

_

AN: Axe body spray is my eternal nemesis. Thank you.


	23. Bones' Promotion

"'Nobody's invincible.'

'Somebody is.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Somewhere in the world is the most invincible man. Just as somewhere is the most vulnerable.'"

—Cormac McCarthy, _No Country For Old Men_

* * *

Another muggy day. Flies clustered on the mud-brown surface of the Ampten canal. Angelo walked along the promenade, sweating under his hood, and Merzer walked behind him.

"Tombley's down there already with two boys," Merzer said.

"What's the report?"

"Some gods-damned idiot got tired of living, I heard. Pitched himself headfirst off the Belt bridge."

"What makes you so sure, Patch?"

"No marks on him. If he was pushed, he didn't put up much of a fight. 'Sides he wouldn't be the first, right, cap'n?"

"No," said Angelo, looking down at the flat, dead water. "I suppose not."

"So why the suspicion?"

"Just want to make sure it's by the book." Looking back, he gave a wry half-smile. "You know me, Patch. Slow n' steady."

"Ha ha," said Patch. "Tell me straight, cap'n. You get word something like this might happen?"

"No," said Angelo. "I'm as surprised as you."

It was impossible to tell when the Captain was lying; or, for that matter, when he was upset or afraid or happy. His voice always seemed to have the same listless quality.

The narrow Belt footbridge cut across the channel in front of them. There was a small quay below for launching boats, and Tombley, the noncombatant investigator, stood there in a white short-sleeved tunic. Two Flaming Fist regulars suffered in their chainmail, standing knee-deep in the filthy canal water. Angelo hopped down with surprising grace; Merzer, weighted by his breastplate, came down more slowly by the ladder.

Tombley, a short, severe-faced man, was chewing on a stalk of Thayvian mint. He took in the Captain and his aide impassively.

"Sergeant. Patch here tells me we had a jumper," said Angelo.

"Aye."

"Last night?"

"Aye."

"Gods, man, is that all you can say?" broke in Merzer.

"I answers yer questions right enow," said Tombley. "F'give me if I don't be runnin' at the mouth."

Angelo waved his hand. "It's fine, Tombley.—What can you show us?"

"Over there," said Tombley, jerking his head. A shape lay at the edge of the quay underneath a heap of brown sackcloth. "Not too pretty. Better take yer looks quick, afore the flies get on him."

Expressionless, Angelo crossed the quay and flicked away the sackcloth. The body was unrecognizable. Mud clung to every surface, the only thing keeping the flies away, and ran out the open mouth.

"Cause of death: suffocation by filth," said Angelo, crisply.

"Like I says," said Merzer, "he was dead when he fell in."

"I agree; it has every appearance of a willful death." Angelo was about to let the sheet fall back, but held it a moment. He turned to Tombley. "Any idea who this might be?"

"Ye can see the face well as we can't, sir."

Angelo nodded. Then, still looking thoughtfully at the body, he took a small glass vial from a pouch at his belt. "I have a cantrip that may be of some use," he muttered, held out his hand and said: "_Phet na_."

He aimed the end of the vial at the corpse's head. Slowly, particle after particle, the mud flaked away and drifted lazily, as if the breeze wafted it, up into the mouth of the vial.

Neither Angelo nor Tombley was known for nerves. It was a long-running joke among the Fist which of the two phlegmatic officers would be the more difficult to startle. When the last of the mud was gone, though, Tombley clutched at his neck and Angelo's eyes went wide and starry, as if he had just inhaled a breath of lotus. Merzer staggered back. The two regulars in the water, slogging closer, let out twin cries of alarm.

"Bloody hell," said Tombley, clutching his hands together. "That aint who I think it be. It aint, is it?"

"Sweet Lathander," muttered one of the regulars.

Mud still oozed up from the dead man's chest. Around the mouth, the clammy white skin was visible; so was a massive scar running from the edge of the hairline down the cheek, cutting over the eye and underneath the chin. The wound had not been given him on the night of his death. It had been a familiar fixture of that face for years.

"Lieutenant!" said Tombley. "Aw, no. No. Bloody hell."

"Seconded," said Angelo, and let the cloth fall back into place.

For a moment, there was no sound but the buzz of flies and the distant hustle of crowds. Angelo turned his back on the body.

"What do you think?" he said wryly. "Did the Lieutenant have trouble at home?"

"I can't believe it," said Merzer. "I can't. You were right, Captain; must be foul play. We _knew_ him. He wouldn't have."

Angelo shrugged. "All men have secrets."

"But you don't really think—?"

Suddenly sharp, Angelo said to Tombley: "Sergeant. You'll think I'm mad, but follow my orders anyway. Have your men search the place for something – odd-smelling. A stick of something burned that smells funny; maybe even a brazier. It should be in the mud somewhere."

"Ye sure?" said Tombley, narrow-eyed.

"Dead sure. But." He turned back to the body, and went on without looking at Tombley. "If you find it, that's as far as you go. You hear? If my suspicions are right, we won't be able to get them. Not these ones. They're too big for us.

"Do I make myself clear?"

In the wide, bright day, his words seemed small, and they were said without any apparent feeling.

There were some in the organization who would have bristled at Angelo's suggestion. The foremost among them, though, who would not have rested until justice was done, lay dead on the quay with half a gallon of mud in lungs, and neither Tombley nor Merzer was so scrupulous.

The Sergeant lowered his eyes. "Aye, sir. Understood, sir."

* * *

He walked through the lobby to where a pretty girl sat behind a desk. She was a Sembian, the willowy, almond-skinned variety you always saw in paintings, and she was humming distractedly as she shuffled a stack of parchments. A quill pen was balanced over her ear.

The room managed to convey a kind of easygoing menace. Dimly-lit and lush, and full of large, moist-leafed plants, it seemed like the inside of a giant's mouth. Still, there was nothing strictly out of the ordinary. In his official capacity he could have found no fault with it. He came up to the wide stone desk and stood silently, listening to the tune the girl was humming. It was nothing he recognized.

The girl looked up, smiled, and said in a single fluid breath: "Welcome to Iron Throne consolidated holdings of Baldur's Gate; business hours are dawn to dusk. Merchants or representatives thereof are advised to—"

"I'm here to see Sarevok Anchev," said the man. He meant to return her smile, but his looked tired and forced.

"Oh, Sir Dosan!" She covered her mouth. "I-I didn't recognize you in without your uniform."

"It's fine, Kaili. Is he available?"

"Y-yes," she said, blushing as she avoided his eyes. "In fact he said to expect you; he's down in his private chamber…Please, this way."

As she stood up, he eyed her discreetly from behind. He was surprised to feel no desire. Twenty years ago the sight of a girl like that would have driven him mad – would have had him behaving the way that she behaved now – but something had changed. He looked at her and felt a different kind of affection, something faint and unfamiliar. It itched in the sealed place inside his chest.

Angelo followed Kaili down the stairs. For the seat of one of Baldur's Gates most prominent merchant consortiums, the Iron Throne building was always strangely empty. There was no sound in the dim stone halls. Angelo had long suspected that the greater part of their business was conducted offsite.

After she had walked in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, Kaili, still looking straight ahead, ventured: "Sir Angelo? We got word about Scar."

"Small world. So did I."

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Small world. So am I."

"That is, I mean to say – he was really looking out for us, wasn't he? I felt a lot safer, knowing he was around. Walking home at night sometimes."

"He was a good man," said Angelo, flatly. "A good man is hard to find these days."

"But…he wasn't the only good man in this city," she said, looking cautiously over her shoulder.

Angelo paused, as if considering. Finally he said: "I wouldn't know anything about that."

"Are you scared, sir?"

"No."

"But the people who got him. If they got _him_, they must be really strong, and—are they after the Fist, now? After they trying to take you down?"

Angelo shook his head. "We investigated. It was a bad job; just a couple of thugs. Scar had taken a dozen of them in his time. But being a lawman's not so different from being a hero; it's mostly up to luck. Scar was lucky a hundred times; one time, he wasn't." After another uncaring silence, he added suddenly: "Being strong has got nothing to do with it."

A different, unrelated memory seemed to trouble him, and he broke off.

They reached the foot of the stairwell. It was cold and dark, the door ahead of them scarcely visible.

"Sir Anchev is a man of prodigious talent," said Angelo, smiling faintly, "however I must admit, I always found his hospitality wanting."

Kaili shivered. "I know what you mean, sir."

"But he's pleasant enough."

"Oh, I agree, sir."

"Coming any further?"

"N-no sir, he – asked to see you alone, sir." She lowered her head. "He was quite specific."

"I see." He hesitated, feeling he should say more; or perhaps he was wary of the darkness ahead, and what lay in it. Not afraid, but wary. "Take care, Kaili," he said. "A girl can still walk home alone in this city, if she keeps to the lit paths."

"Thank you sir!—T-take care as well, sir." She lowered her head still further and blushed, then turned and trotted back up the stairs at quickly as possible. Her heels clicked loud on the marble steps. Angelo watched her until she was out of sight, then he turned and looked back at the iron door.

Iron was at the heart of everything. Iron mines. The chair in Davaeorn's study. He was dealing with men as hard and inflexible as metal.

He raised his hand and rapped on the door, once.

"Enter," said a voice.

He put his hand on the door and pushed. It gave slowly, used to being pushed by a hand of far greater strength.

The room was lit with candles, arranged in a circle around a seated figure. It was bare of all other ornamentation, as bare as it had been when it was only a storage room. The walls and ceiling were spotted with water damage. Sarevok sat there, silent and motionless as an iron statue.

The door swung to.

"If milord was meditating," Angelo said quietly, "I can return at some other time."

There was no immediate answer. In the silence, Angelo began to make out Sarevok's breathing: slow, smooth and regular, like a water drip.

He cleared his throat. "If milord is meditating—"

"When," said Sarevok, "am I _not_ mediating, Dosan?"

Angelo said nothing. The silence returned, and he stared at the back of Sarevok's head, a perfect black circle in the half-light.

"Life is a meditation," Sarevok said in his even tones, masterfully playing the exotic instrument of his voice. "We live from one breath to the next. And in one breath—"

Then he was standing. There had been, Angelo was sure, no moment in between. He was on his feet and there was a rustle as his black silk uniform fell around him. Angelo blinked. He had spent eight years on the road with Nimbul, and known many rouges and assassins in the years since, but he had never seen anyone move as quickly.

The candles flickered but did not go out.

"—the world," finished Sarevok, "is destroyed and recreated. _Selah_."

"Another choice piece of Sembian wisdom?"

Sarevok didn't answer. Standing with his back to Angelo, as motionless as before, a pure black, straight-edged figure, he said: "It was good of you to come quickly. You are a man who keeps his word."

"What business did you have with Scar?" said Angelo.

"You are upset. But you will allow me to explain."

"Oh, I'm not upset. Just curious."

"It was unfortunate. Yet he had to die, so that another could take his place."

"What other. You?"

Sarevok shook his head, slowly from one side to the other. There was another silence.

"I just don't understand you," said Angelo slowly, bemusedly. "With all due respect, sometimes I think you don't know what the hell you're doing. And then I worry.—And then I smoke a pipe, and it doesn't seem so bad. But I worry."

"Tell me. Why is it that you see fit to poison yourself?"

"You ought to be glad I do; don't imagine for a second I'd have anything to do with you otherwise."

"I only asked," said Sarevok. "I fail to understand how a man could do so such a thing. To attack oneself. To be one's own enemy. It must take a kind of strength…An odd strength. The strength of not-caring. Of despising oneself. Why do you hate yourself, Dosan?"

"Oh, I don't mind myself," said Angelo, smiling at the back of Sarevok's head. "I've learned to get along with myself."

"You must hate yourself. Otherwise, your hatred would be directed outward. At the world."

"We have a saying," said Angelo, "where I come from.—'Live and let live.'"

"Is that your philosophy, Dosan?"

"Not so much, no. More 'live and let die,' I suppose. But I don't hate myself. I don't hate anyone, really."

"No man is free of hatred," said Sarevok. "Man lives, breathes, eats, and he hates. There are only those who are the masters of their hatred, and those who are not."

There was still a touch of youth in the smooth voice, Angelo thought. When he had been twenty summers, he had been—what _had_ he been doing? The Mountains. The Red Wolf, Mitsuko Sonno. He shook his head to clear it.

When he had been twenty years of age, he had been interested in three thing principally: money, ale and women. Sarevok seemed to hold none of these things at any value. He was a Sembian and queer like a Sembian, but it was more than that. Rieltar Anchev was the same as any greedy, shortsighted denizen of the Gate, but his son was a different puzzle. He was like no one Angelo had ever dealt with before.

"Scar was a good man," Angelo found himself repeating. "One of the only honest mercenaries left in this town. Now that he's gone, the thieves will rule. The Gate is about to see its worst year in decades."

"I stood between him and the Throne. There was no need to kill him."

"Are you angry, Dosan?"

"Angry?—I suppose not. I only wondered if you realized what you'd done."

"I realize perfectly," Sarevok said. "I believe it is you who does not realize.

"You say that Scar was a good man? That may be. But I am a better man."

"How do you figure that?"

"He is dead. I am still alive."

Angelo stared. Sarevok had spoken without a trace of irony.

"It is crucial that my plan go forward," he went on. "That is worth any payment, any sacrifice. It is worth the deaths of millions."

"Just for money? I thought you didn't give a damn about money. Your father's operation—"

"_My plan is not my father's_!"

It was the first time Angelo had heard Sarevok raise his voice. It shuddered the small room, sending the candle flames scattering and their shadows lurching.

"My plan is not my father's," Sarevok repeated. "What do _you_ know of it? I have spoken of these things to no man. No man living."

Angelo swallowed, and held his peace.

"I do not care for silver or gold. I do not care for palaces or crowns. I do not care for men or women," said Sarevok. "I care only for—"

"I don't remember asking," said Angelo.

Sarevok turned around. He stared at Angelo, his eyes glittering wet and sharp in the candlelight, as if he had only just become aware of his presence.

"I don't care what plans you have," said Angelo. "I never said I wanted to know."

Another silence. The candle flames burned perfectly still. Sarevok looked at him, and he looked coolly back. The Sembian was a good head taller.

Finally, Sarevok spoke again. "There has been news, I think. I have heard my father talking. He is upset."

"The mines were stormed," said Angelo. "Davaeorn is dead. The bandits are scattered, too, and the living ones won't survive long. Nearly all his operation is crippled, and he knows it.—Not that it's all so terrible. His pawns accomplished nearly all they were meant to, and the second phase of his plan is nearly ready.

"But you already knew that. Didn't you?"

"Yes. I had – a feeling that matters were drawing to an end, Dosan."

"A feeling," Angelo repeated, musingly.

"You say that the mines were stormed. It was the man whose death I entrusted to your hands. Was it not?"

"It was."

"I suppose that is for the best, then. I would have had to kill Davaeorn myself, in time, and the others. They are all my enemies."

"And am I your enemy?" said Angelo, smiling.

Sarevok seemed not to hear. "Why did you fail me, Dosan?"

"I did as best I could."

"Then you shall do better.—You asked me who was to replace Scar, yes?"

"I did. But only out of curiosity: after all, I might as well be acquainted with my soon-to-be superior."

"He is before you," said Sarevok. Then, with a rare, slight smile, his brilliant white teeth gleaming: "Lieutenant Dosan."

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Sarevok Anchev

Human

Chaotic Neutral

Fighter: Level 8

Strength: 19

Dexterity: 16

Intelligence: 13

Wisdom: 13

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Gorion

Favorite Weapon: Two-Handed Sword +4, "The Culler"


	24. Ilmater Wept

The Blade and Stars Inn, in Baldur's Gate's southwestern district, was a small cramped establishment of two floors, most of which was taken up by the staircase. Jaheira was used to such accommodations.

She and Shar-Teel shared the drafty loft at the top of the building; the others were quartered in closet-like chambers on the floor below. They had arrived in the city the night before in a driving rain. The day's journey north from the Cloakwood had been fast, hard and silent. No one seemed to have much to say.

Now Jaheira sat by the window, wrapped in the inn's dirty linen robe, her hair still damp from her the bath. The glass was old and had begun to slide downward, pooling over the sill. The scene outside was murky and chaotic. Carriages rattled past in the street; hawkers shouted and people cried and moaned. There was something like a hell about it. The rain still fell, thought it had begun to slacken.

A timid knock came on the doorframe.

"Come in," said Jaheira, without looking around.

"It's me."

Felix stood in the doorway with his head down. Since the journey's start, he gave the impression of begin taller. Although he was grave and downcast, his figure seemed to have a straightness it had lacked a tenday ago. He wore his old chapped leathers, his face was washed, and his sword hung at his belt. Looking at him from the corner of her eye, Jaheira couldn't help a slight sense of pride.

"What is it?" she said, when he was silent. "If you have questions, now is the time to ask. I suppose much does remain unsaid—much that perhaps, should have been said some time ago."

Felix said nothing. Then he stepped forward, got down slowly on one knee and lowered his head until his forelock touched the floor.

She looked at him, and said dully: "What is the meaning of this, child?"

"Jaheria," he said. His voice was faint, thick and nervous. "You were right, then, weren't you? That day. He should have listened to you. But it's too late now, isn't it? I'm alive. And it's my fault. So, it's my fault. All I can do is say I'm sorry. All I can do is beg your pardon. So here I am, doing it. Will you grant me your pardon?"

"Felix," she said – and although she had forgotten, it was in the same way, nearly exactly, that he had assured her husband as he lay dying on the floor of Davaeorn's study. "No. There is nothing to be sorry for."

"But I, he—"

She looked back out the window as she spoke, with no apparent emotion. "Yours is a trail of tears. I knew that long ere I began to follow it myself; and Khalid – Khalid knew it as well. Your are _not_ to blame that the way is hard, and you are _not_ to blame for those who fall along it. It was in Gorion's name that we took charge of you, but it was by our own choice: that was Khalid's choice, and – it is mine. I make the choice again, now that he is no longer with us. So…"

She got up and crossed the room, holding her robe with one hand, and put the other hand on the top of his head.

"Get up, Felix. Shed no more tears."

Felix felt strange. It was the first time, nearly, that she had called him _Felix_, instead of _child_. The only other time he recalled was when had begun to tell his story – had told him the half of it. He got to his feet.

"I don't care about the past," he said, looking her in the eyes. "I don't care what I am. I don't want to talk about it."

She was surprised. "But surely—"

"It's like you said, isn't it?" He was nervous, and there was something deeper about it, more violent than simple nerves. She saw it, and it worried her. His sentences came out quickly and followed mercilessly, one on the other. "It's what I do from now on, isn't it? I can make my own way. Nothing else matters."

They were silent a long time, looking at each other. The rain clattered on the eaves. Wind blew through the chinks in the crumbling wall. His words were hopeful, she thought, but there was nothing hopeful in the way he spoke.

She stepped away. "Once this matter is dealt with, once and for all, I suppose we will discuss these matters at our leisure.—For the moment, we must find this man Rieltar."

"Yes. And you think he is somewhere in this great city?"

"If he is not, then I have friends here who will direct me to him. No man who wields such power – power over such a man as Davaeorn, as you spoke of it – can conceal himself with much ease. With great power comes great _size_."

"Yes. And we'll kill him, won't we?"

"If we can. But not out of vengeance," she said calmly. "For justice."

Felix looked at her. She recognized doubt in his eyes.

"As you say," he said, and looked down.

She put a hand on his shoulder, the hand that did not hold her robe in place. "I think I have recovered myself. I will go, now, and speak with such friends as I have. Can I trust you and our new companions to keep safe in my absence?"

"We'll do our best," said Felix. "Xan has his spellbook now. I think he should be able to stave off whatever comes."

"Yes," said Jaheira musingly, "the elf is an enchanter of no small ability, or wisdom. It was fortunate for our paths to cross as they did; though I wonder, now that we have reached the city, how much longer he will wish to remain in our company."

"I will ask him," said Felix.

* * *

Downstairs, Xan and Imoen sat in the common room, in the only two threadbare chairs that stood by an empty fireplace. Xan had a pipe in his mouth, and the slightest hint of a smile touched the edge of his mouth. He had washed his hair, and what had hung off his head in clumps like a dying plant was now bright and lustrous. He looked decades younger.

"You're in a merry mood today," said Felix skeptically, standing halfway down the staircase.

"As days go," Xan returned cheerfully, "to-day is not quite as dreadful as most. You know, I really did believe I had reached the end of my tether. But it seems the gods mean to keep me here a bit longer, to kick around for their amusement."

"I'm happy for you," Felix said dully.

"You'll always have my gratitude, Master Lightfoot." Xan had his feet up on an ottoman, in their bulky traveling boots, and he smoked and smiled and Felix almost hated him. "No doubt I'll be run over by a carriage to-morrow, but I'm in your debt all the same."

"Then you mean to stay with us?"

"My boy, this Ahil-Nezar fellow will doubtless seek my death. I know his type: I defied him once, and I'm a thorn in his pride so long as I live. I'm safest keeping with you lot – not _safe_, mind you, but nearest to it. And as I told you, I have no intention of returning home."

Felix came the rest of the way down the stairs. Without a fire, the room was lit only by the dead gray light from the rainy sky, and Xan's smile seemed impossible. He crossed the room to where Imoen sat.

"Alright?" he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Imoen had not washed her hair. It hung around her face, dry and brittle. She looked up and tried to smile.

"Right as the other way from left," she said.

"Imoen, listen—" He fumbled his words. For a moment, he hesitated to speak in front of Xan, but Xan was looking out the window with a magnificently uncaring expression. "Listen," he said, more quietly. "Once this is all over, we'll be happy again. I swear. We'll do something – to be happy."

"It's fine," she whispered back. Her hand went up to cover his hand on her shoulder. "As long as you're with me. And Jaheira. I'm happy now."

He looked at her, and doubted it.

Xan got up suddenly. "Say. What are we doing sitting around here, anyway?"

"Xan?"

"Now, Master Lightfoot, weren't you telling me you were raised in some sort of –monastery?"

"A library," said Imoen, vaguely.

Looking at Xan, from where he stood by Imoen, Felix had a sudden lurching sense that he remembered from the deck of the raft. He could not explain it, but for a moment it seemed as if Xan were in a different room, behind a glass wall. Or in a dream. He blinked; shook his head.

A stranger thought occurred: Xan fed on despair. Perhaps here, in the midst of it, he was at his happiest.

"That's right," he muttered. "The library fortress. Candlekeep."

"Ah, yes." Xan seemed oblivious to all discomfort in the room; that was why, perhaps, Felix felt so odd when he looked at him. "Candlekeep. Rather stiff place full of monks and bookworms, isn't it?"

"They were nice," Felix said uncertainly.

Xan waved his hand. "Oh yes, yes, I'm certain. But tell me, Master Lightfoot. Now that you're in a _proper_ city for nearly the first time in all your life, do you really intend to sit in the inn here, twiddling your thumbs?"

"Jaheira is going out," said Felix. "She said we ought to keep safe until—"

Xan went on as if he hadn't heard. "I say, let's go out tonight, just the three of us." He chuckled. "_Mehn ah tet_.—Sorry, Elven term. Wondergirl can come along too, if she likes."

"Xan, I really don't think—" Felix began.

There was a heavy tread on the stairs; Felix and Imoen looked up. Felix was surprised to see Jaheira. It could have been no one else, but he could never have imagined that the half-elf's footstep would sound so slow and grave.

She was dressed in a heavy brown traveling cloak, her hair tied carelessly back in a single bunch. Her brown skin seemed to have taken on a grayish tinge. Felix felt the same unsteady sensation: he and Imoen, Xan, and Jaheira seemed to be standing in different dingy inn rooms, unable to see each other.

He shook his head again.

"I will be leaving presently," Jaheira said crisply to Xan. Felix looked at her. She seemed more noble than ever, more of a lady. "I will not return till dusk, I believe. Will you bide here awhile?"

Xan smirked up at her from his ratty armchair. "Never fear, ma'am," he drawled, "your wards are more than safe in my capable hands."

Felix wondered for a moment if he should tell Jaheira what Xan had suggested, not a moment ago. But feeling so unsure on his feet, so ill and confused, he couldn't bring the words to his mouth.

Jaheira paused in the doorway. "You are wise in the ways of magic, friend. Do you believe that this – Sembian witch-doctor I have been told of, will attempt to use augury to detect us?"

Xan grew serious a moment. "I gave the matter some thought, yes. However I don't believe so. It takes quite a measure of study to become a capable diviner, and an enchanter such as myself – and, I suspect, like our friend Semaj – would not possess the knowledge to perform such a complex scry. He has none of our possessions, or aught else that might assist him as a material component, and no doubt there are others matters to occupy his time. I believe we are safe enough."

Jaheira nodded. Her bearing was almost military. "Thank you, friend. Until we meet again."

Xan offered a mock-salute and said something in an elven tongue that Felix took for a leave-taking, then: "—Madame."

Then Jaheira was gone. Xan's manner had not even drawn a smile from her.

"I really miss Khalid," said Imoen.

Felix blinked. It was a simple, obvious statement, but it was the first time he had heard it expressed: and here in the dim, smoky room, so far from the event, it took on a new truth. More than Khalid was absent now. The Khalid that had lived in Jaheira – that had been a light in her eyes, a lightness in the way she walked – was gone as well.

Even in Jaheira's absence, the other absence was felt.

Xan got briskly to his feet. "Well, no need to sit around looking as if the dog took sick. One of you rustle up Wondergirl and let's go up the town. I say, where _has_ she got to anyway?"

"In Felix's room," said Imoen.

Both men looked at her. Sunk down in her chair, she shrugged. "She just went in there. _I_ wasn't about to stop her."

She glared sideways at the door. In the atmosphere of the past few days, her amusement with Shar-Teel seemed to have changed into a dull dislike.

Felix crossed to the door, and rapped on it hesitantly with the back of his hand.

"Shar?" he said softly.

"Never call me that, manchild," came back a low voice.

"Shar, what're you doing in my quarters?" said Felix. His strange oppressive mood gave him the courage to speak to her openly. The venom in her tone would have turned him off not long ago.

"Waiting for him," she said, simply.

"And what makes you think—"

"If he comes for _you_," she said, as explaining it to a half-wit, "then he'll find _me_."

Felix was silent awhile, leaning his head on the door. That seemed to make as much sense as anything made sense, these days.

"Understand?" she said.

He nodded. "I understand."

"Good. Don't overtax yourself, manchild."

He stepped back. He imagined her sitting cross-legged on the bed, motionless, a sword or knife in her hand, her eyes on the door. She had absolute faith that she would meet _him_ someday. For all she hated him, thought Felix, she awaited his coming almost like another young maiden would await her true love.

"Take care," he whispered through the keyhole.

"Go break your head."

By the stairs down, Xan was already shrugging on his greatcloak. "That's a shame. A party can never have too many women. Even a dirty, hate-filled man-trap like over yonder."

"I can hear you perfectly, elf," said Shar-Teel, from behind the door.

Unmindful, Xan put his foot on the uppermost stair.

"Wait," Felix said.

"Hmm?—What's the matter?"

"Jaheira said to stay put."

Xan looked at him askance. "I don't recall that."

"Well, she said to stay safe. Aren't we safe here?"

"I suppose." Xan shrugged, a small shape inside his massive greatcloak. "But the way I see it, Death's going to find you in any case; sooner rather than later, by odds. You may as well present it a moving target."

Felix looked to Imoen. She sat in her chair, hunched low, her hair unwashed, and looked slowly from one of them to the other.

She shrugged. "I don' really care."

Xan clapped his hands. "Well! It's settled, then."

He beamed at Felix and Imoen. Felix, looking back, wondered if the vastly intelligent elf were really oblivious to their distress, as he had misunderstood Jaheira's – or if he had merely chosen to ignore it.

"Besides," he said, already beginning down the stairs. "I promised you, Master Lightfoot, didn't I?"

* * *

Jaheira walked on the right side of the street. She looked straight ahead, the rain sluicing off the enchantment on her cloak, and the people took one side to avoid her. She passed through the bustling docks district up toward the heart of the city.

The crowds began to thin. The buildings were lower, here, and made of wood more often stone, wood that sagged and stank under the rain. A man with only two teeth in his mouth tugged on the hem of Jaheira's cloak.

"Pleath, ma'am. One copper ma'am."

Wordlessly she pressed a gold piece into his hand, then swept on before he could thank her. Generosity, like weakness, could be a danger in the slums. A hint of it and one would be devoured alive.

When the street was nearly empty, she stopped. She stood motionless in the sighing rain, her head down, listening.

The street was narrow with hanging eaves. The rain fell on the filthy cobblestones and on the small-bodied half-elf, in her traveling cloak, with her head down. Not far from her, in front of a shop with shuttered windows, the rain described a space in midair that had no other obvious substance.

The shape watched the half-elf. It made the slightest movement. There was a scrape on the tiles. The half-elf turned her head, but with an uncanny speed, the shape had vanished entirely.

Jaheira began to walk again rapidly. She went left at the next turning, never looking around, and went down the alley until she reached the temple of Ilmater. At the door, she took a final look back. The rain-licked street was empty. She pushed open the door and went inside.

The small roomed reeked of sickness. By the light of a candle, a priest was washing out the weeping sores on a young boy's leg. The boy was perhaps fourteen and very skinny. The bowl under his leg, collecting the filthy water, was made of wood. The priest wore a plain hemp shift. There was no decoration but an icon of the suffering god, his weeping face, hung on the wall across the room. Jaheira took in these details without the slightest change in expression.

The priest looked up. "I bid you welcome, sister," he said, smiling, as if she had been expected.

"My thanks, brother," she answered flatly.

The boy looked at Jaheira,. Jaheira was reminded of the mine-slave she had seen briefly, the one that Felix had saved from Davaeorn's hands. The hopeless look in their eyes was the same.

Jaheira put back her hood. "I have come to lay my sins before the Weeping God," she told the priest. "His tears shall wash me pure as snow."

Nodding, a look of perpetual un-surprise in his hazy, smiling eyes, he gestured toward a pair of narrow wooden doors in the rear wall. "Brother Ayn with assist you. Your door is on the right."

Jaheira had always respected Ilmaterites for one reason. They dispensed their blessing to all alike, without first inquiring if the supplicant worshipped Ilmater.

Passing in front of the icon's anguished eyes, she went through the door. It was dark and dust-choked inside, like a broom closet. She sat on the rough stone bench and the door swung to, shutting her in absolute darkness.

On her left was a narrow slat in the wall. She could hear the priest's faint breath.

"I have come here to unburden my heart," she said.

"You are troubled, Sister?" said the priest. His voice was strangely unpriestly: young, and with an edge of amusement.

"My troubles are as many as the fish in the seas, the drops of water in the seas," said Jaheira; her voice also strange, deliberate and ritualized.

"Where have you come from, Sister?"

"From a distant star, by a tenday's journey through the sun."

"And have you traveled here alone?"

"Those who Harp," she said, "are never truly alone."

There was a brief silence. Through the slat, she heard the priest's dry chuckle.

"Jaheira. My dear, it's been some time."

"I would dearly like to speak with you, Dermin," Jaheira said, honestly, "as one friend to another. But I am hard-pressed. I seek a dangerous man – a threat to the balance, and to the fate of nations. No common criminal. All that is good and decent demands that he be stopped."

"You speak of Rieltar Anchev."

She started. "Then—much is known of him?"

"We have had our sights on Rieltar for some time, Sister. He is a hard and ambitious man. Yet it is not the man himself, but the forces surrounding the man – strange, malignant forces, Jaheira – that are the cause of most concern."

"Tell me where I can find him, and I will put a stop to it all. If I can. Or Silvanus help me, I will die in the attempt."

"Very well. I will speak of this to the Masters: you may go about your task. I will tell you this. Rieltar, nearly a year ago, came here from Sembia with a princely entourage. Many friends and many carriages. He set himself up as a merchant – as the head of a consortium, the 'Iron Throne.'

"Rieltar is wealthy and feared. He was wealthy when he arrived, and now is wealthier still. Strange things always seem to befall his rivals. They behave erratically, doing away with their assets – and some, a strangely high number, seem to take their own lives."

"The Iron Throne, you say?"

"Yes. Their stronghold is in the southerly part of the city. It would be difficult to overlook it; it is the tallest, grimmest structure in the district, and is ringed around by a spiked iron fence."

Jaheira frowned. "Yes; I believe I went by it on my journey here."

"Then you know what must be done."

"Well I know it. I thank you – friend."

They had known each other thirty-nine years. There was little else to say.

Dermin peered through the slat, his gray-green eyes full of humor. "You look not well, sister. Does this season find you in bad spirits?"

"I wish not to speak of it," said Jaheira, and got up quickly.

"Tell me, how fares Khalid?"—he called after her, but the door swung shut.

Again she stood in the narrow, stinking room with the priest and the leper child. She looked from one to the other. They looked back at her, the priest smiling again with that incomprehensible happiness, the child tense and suspicious.

"Has the Weeping God seen fit to forgive you your sins?"

"I do not know, priest," said Jaheira, perhaps more harshly than was warranted. She softened. "Brother."

"My sister?"

"Would you – bestow your blessing upon me?"

"But of course," the priest said through his smile. He stood, leaving the child, and passed his hand quickly over her forehead and shoulders, muttering a prayer. Then he bowed to her. "Go your way in peace, Sister."

"My thanks." She looked at the open door, where the rain still fouled the cobblestones.

"Tell me," she said softly. "How is it possible to overcome a being that has no heart or brain?—That exists as a prophet of hatred, an avatar of all that is sick and vile in the human soul?"

"Such a creature," said the priest, still smiling, "dwells within every one of us. And it can not be overcome with hatred. It can only be overcome with love."

Jaheira snorted. Then she pulled her cloak around with a tug, looked resolutely away from the priest and stepped back into the rain.


	25. Fear and Loathing

AN: Thanks to everyone who reviewed since I last thanked reviewers - that should be Starx, Calimbor and Anna. Thanks; I really do appreciate it.

* * *

"Xan," said Imoen, "where – are we?"

_It isn't safe, Felix had said to Xan, and Xan had said I can get off a blindness hex in the time it takes you to blink and besides you've got that pig-sticker there. And Felix had looked down and the sword hung there, useless and heavy, and he remembered a moment _

_several days ago not long after they had crawled back into the sunlight, when he had washed in the stream and thought there was dirt caked between his toes but it was blood._

"This is a fine establishment," said Xan, as though offended. "Can't you tell?"

Imoen squinted blearily at the sign-board. It was filthy and showed a naked, rosy-skinned woman who was a fish from the waist down, coyly clutching her breasts and offering the trio a simpering edgewise smile. Felix looked at her. The painting was crude, but for a moment it came to life, and she seemed to be looking directly back at him.

_Boy._

He shivered.

"See here," said Xan, rolling his eyes. "I do apologize if the Blushing Mermaid doesn't quite measure up to the standards of whatever solid oak bar they had in Candlekeep for serving elven wine in tiny crystal glasses, but you said you wanted to see the city and this is it."

Imoen was still vague-eyed, still brittle. She had walked holding her arms stiff at her sides, and now she stood underneath the brightly-painted sign and seemed to shrink. Her hips were not as wide as the mermaid's; her breasts were not as full. It was like an icon of an unsympathetic god.

Felix looked at the mermaid. He knew her painted lips never moved, but he still heard distinctly

_Boy. Little boy. Come here._

"I say, Master Lightfoot—"

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You're shaking.—You're not still worried about that Sembian chap giving us the third eye, are you?"

Felix shook his head.

"Have you got a chill, then?"

Felix shook his head.

"I don't want to go in," said Imoen in a small voice, like a girl begging her father.

Xan seemed truly puzzled. "You were all for it not an hour ago, Little Miss."

"I guess—" she said haltingly. "I wanted to—forget…?"

"Well then," said Xan, unhesitatingly seizing her young hand in his older, calloused hand, "you've come to the right place, I daresay."

_What had happened was a punishment._ _The thought came to him like a lightning bolt, striking him where he stood shivering in the splintering rain, in the shadow of the inn._ _A punishment, for breaking the vow. The vow the sword's old owner had sworn, that it would never take a life. He had taken life, and it had not been his fault; but he had paid, and would continue to pay._

_He had not paid. Another had. Others had. He was only the instrument that brought down senseless punishment on the heads of innocents. That was the way; innocents always suffered, never the guilty. The guilty were the instruments of their punishment. But perhaps, if they were being punished, all alike were guilty._

"What about you, Master Lightfoot? Anything you'd care to forget?"

_In that dream, that vision, there was a figure dressed in armor, and the figure said: "Brilliant. Come at me with everything you have."_

_The Lord of Murder shall perish. But in his wake_

"Fine," said Felix. "Fine. Fine. Let's go in. Let's. I don't care."

_he shall spawn a score_

"That's the spirit, fellow." Xan clapped him on the back. "You're in a bad way, but there's ways to make it all better, no matter how bad it gets…Let's sort you out…"

_of mortal progeny._

The went in the doorway, where it stank and was dark and loud, and down a flight of stairs. The smell began to change. The wood walls became stone. Felix wondered, for a delirious moment, what dungeon Xan had led them into.

_Chaos_

A tall man, dressed in black leathers, blocked the hallway. Torches behind him made his whole frame dark.

"Bless me 'eart," he said, clapping himself on the chest, "if it aint old Xan-boy! What's the tale, bitter ale?"

"Fewett! Hullo, you old backstabber!"

They embraced. Imoen stood back, looking grayer every minute, and she glanced furtively at Felix but

_shall be sown in their footsteps._

"Why, I don't believe I've seen your sour mug in ages…" Fewett was saying, peering in at Xan. His thug's face, twisted in some long-ago brawl, reminded Felix wrenchingly of

_"You have to stand right in the middle of it," said Davaeorn, looking far more grave, pained and thoughtful than any man so evil had a right to look. "Right in the middle of it. Then you start to understand a thing or two."_

_Right in the middle._

Xan placed a ten gold piece in Fewett's hand. "That's for me, the lad and the girl…"

"My, my," said Fewett, leering at Imoen, "she's a cute one, aint she?"

Xan smiled thinly. "No one is going to lay a hand on her here, Fewett. She's a friend and under my auspices."

Imoen hardly looked reassured.

_"When I was a boy," said Davaeorn, "I liked to fly kites."_

_"Kites, sir?"_

_"Kites."_

_"Your father was an evil man, child," said Jaheira. "But you see – you see that what is bred in the bone need not out in the flesh."_

_Davaeorn had not come from evil stock. Yet he had been an evil man. Yet_

"If it's the city you want," Xan was saying, as they moved further and further down the dim stone corridor, away from the city and everything familiar, "you can't do better than this. You two ought to count yourselves bloody lucky, really, that you've got a guide who knows a thing or two. These are called the Undercellars. And they're a damned lot more fun than drinking yourself stupid in the tavern upstairs. Safer, too."

"_Safer_?" choked Imoen.

"Oh, yes," Xan went on imperturbably. "No-one ever gets hurt in down here. Cross my heart, Little Miss. You see—" He looked back, and his smile in the dim yellow light had an unfortunate appearance. "Nobody _wants_ to hurt anyone."

_"She belongs to me," said Davaeorn._

_Everything he had been taught in the marble halls of Candlekeep was a lie. Men did not treat each other like men. The world was full of sharpened knives, and men were animals wearing masks._

They were coming into a long arcade, like an underground market, and the hawkers were crying loudly in voices that should have been sweet but were somehow not:

"I'm a fine lookin' strumpet, aint I?"

"Well, if ye wants to go strappin' with this nab, you'll first have t' give up the socket money…"

Everything reeked damply. Eyes glittered out of the half-dark on either side of them, and Imoen, whimpering, huddled closer to Felix, but he stared straight ahead and took

_Lord of Murder shall perish_

no notice of her.

_There had to be a way to go back. The way it stood, there was more blood ahead, as long as the sword hung on his hip. But there was a way. There was a way to keep the blood back, if he could only_

Then Felix opened his eyes and he was sitting cross-legged on a velvet cushion. They were hunched in a small, low-ceiling room that smelled overwhelmingly of some thick and unfamiliar tobacco. The lush deep shapes of the pillows and hangings had an underwater appearance. Felix was looking at something strange in front of him; something he had never seen before.

It was like a metal octopus with four long, lashing arms, and at first it seemed to be moving, but he realized the arms were only being held by the four persons seated around it. One of them was in his own hand. Xan was holding it there, saying urgently:

"Felix. Master Lightfoot? You're not fading out on us already, are you?"

He shook his head.

"Sorry, Xan, I—"

"Nevermind that. Here, let me show you how it's done."

Other faces were floating in front of him. Xan, on the right, his narrow face looking unhealthy again in the swampy light; Imoen on his other side, looking stupidly down at her crossed legs. He realized that she was holding his hand: it was limp and unresponsive in hers. She also clutched one of the tentacles winding out of the odd-shaped thing in front of them. It had a body like a flower bud, tapering upward, and he half-expected to see a tiny head on top of it, smirking back at him.

"Just put your mouth on this," said Xan, holding the end of the tentacle in Felix's hand. He put his lips around it. The nozzle was cold and bitter-tasting, and he almost

_right in the middle of it_

gagged.

"Alright," said Xan, and gave him a tight smile and squeezed his hand, then reached out with his other hand and twisted a knob on the metal octopus.

"Just breath," said Xan.

Felix breathed.

The next words he heard as if through a heavy fog.

"You'll be alright, Master Lightfoot."

_sweet sweet dreams dreams. Sweet, dreams. Lightfoot. Light foot. Felix the happy child happy happy moving_

_curve around corners_

_backwards_

_sideways_

He was looking at himself.

There was a moment when the crash of voices in his head threatened to kill him: then all voices stopped altogether, and there was only a beautiful, crystal silence.

He looked around. The world did not seem dim anymore. A silver light lingered around the edge of his vision, flickering, shining on everything, and he was not afraid.

Then he coughed hard.

"Bloody amateur," said Xan affectionately, and squeezed his hand again. Then he breathed in. Then he fell back on the cushion, sighing with relief.

"Felix," said Imoen, "I love you, okay? I love you. Don't leave me." Then she breathed in again, then she doubled forward, repeating quietly: "I love you. I love you."

It was then that Felix saw the fourth man, who had been sitting across from him, on the other side, for some time. There was no reason he should not have noticed him before. In fact, given his appearance, that was very strange indeed.

The man was young, and his head was shaved. He had a lean, hard, neat look, and his chin and cheeks jutted out. His face was violent with metal. An iron stud weighed down his lip, giving him a permanent, clown-like pout. Five metal rings pulled out his pale left cheek like pins in a dissection specimen. Another ring hung on his left eyebrow, and a sixth, the largest of all, hung from his nostrils, giving him the look of a young and exceptionally mean stud bull.

He was smiling at Felix. Felix smiled back. With the silver light dancing all around, Felix realized that he loved this man.

The man opened his mouth to speak. As his tongue slid past his flawless, brilliant teeth, Felix saw something impossible: for a moment it looked forked, like a snake's. Then as the man continued speaking, he realized it was no illusion. The very end of the tongue had been cut in half, the edges of the split still pink and raw, although they had healed.

Even through the happy haze of the lotus, Felix had a faint unpleasant feeling.

He inhaled again. Beside him, Xan was laid out on the cushions, giggling helplessly.

"Hullo, friend," the man across from him was saying, lisping with his cut tongue. "Nameth Thlythe."

"Pardon me?" said Felix, blinking.

"Thlythe."

"Felix?" said Imoen, still gripping his hand, and looked around wildly. "Where are you. Felix? Felix?"

The man inhaled, then, grinning, blew a fan of white smoke at Felix like a kiss.

"Thath a nice, pretty girl you got there, friend. I'm with my girl too. Mind you, you're girlth not as pretty 's mine. No girl's prettier'n my Krithten."

"Pardon."

"I thaid," said the man, without the slightest change in his sugar-sweet voice, "that scabby hoor next t' yes, havin' her freak-out her first time on the lotus, aint worth a sewer rat's tail compared to the light of my lithe – my Krithten." Then he sat back and bit his thumbnail.

"Okay," said Felix, and blinked again.

"Me an' my girl," said Thlythe, as if sharing a delicious secret, "just got off work, see? We likes to come here afterwards. Does it all the time. T' relax."

Felix nodded as if he couldn't possibly agree more.

Thlythe held up his nozzle in a scholarly way, looking at the ceiling. "Loving my girl," he said, "is like – havin' a dire wolf. Eat you. From the pecker up. Chewin' all the way. Mask, but I loves how she loves me."

_The Lord of Murder shall perish_

Then it was different. He was no longer sitting in front of the octopus, listening to Thlythe sing the praises of his Krithten, but was in a similar room lying flat-out on the old, faded cushions, and the silver light still danced in his eyes. He smiled. And suddenly he wasn't alone.

He looked up, and a woman, older than Imoen but younger than Jaheira, was crawling across the floor toward him like an enormous cat. She smiled. Her teeth were not bright, like Thlythe's, but her smile was sweet and again he found himself responding in kind. Then he saw her breasts. They were impossible to overlook, hanging down huge and luminous inside her caftan, and again

_boy_

He swallowed.

"Yer friend sent me," she said kindly. "Thought ye might appreciate my services."

She had rich dark hair. He reached out and ran his hands through it, wondering, and she guided his hands. She began to laugh prettily.

"Aw, but you're _too_ cute, ye are! Like a 'lil puppy-dog…And yer eyes…"

He kissed her. Underneath him, the floor gave a sudden, violent lurch, and then he was sure that liquid gold was pouring from her throat into his. He whimpered and moaned and they pawed at one and other and she was still laughing…

Then he heard a familiar voice, and everything went as cold as ice.

"And _what_. Is the meaning of this?"

He would believe, later, that he had never been so terrified in all his dangerous life. He remember the girl being snatched away from him, as if by a single giant hand, and then he saw another woman gripping her by the front of her shift and shaking her mercilessly. Although the other woman was short, she behaved with a furious, fearless indignation.

"How _dare_ you! Keep your vile claws off that boy; he isn't for your kind! He's better! He's, he's…"

"Jaheira?" said Felix, sitting wide-eyed on his rear end.

"Oh, child," said Jaheira, thickly.

"Jaheira," said Felix, and suddenly began to smile. "Ya know. Ya know, you're – really pretty. Jaheira."

She looked at him long and hard. Then, gripping the wailing prostitute by the hair, heaved her out into the hall.

"The gods have mercy on you!" she bellowed after the luckless girl. "If I see your face again, _I _surely will not!"

Felix lay back. Already he missed the taste of the white smoke, and the silver light was beginning to fade. Soon the voices would start again.

Jaheira tensed, her eyes blazing, and for a moment he was sure she would kick him. Then she shook her head, knelt, and helped him gently to his feet.

"I'm going to get you out of here," she whispered.

Then they were back in the wide hall, with the voices everywhere and the wet smell, and Jaheira was screaming: "_Imbecile! Vile, scheming charlatan! Murderer!_"

Xan, one arm around a beautiful, doe-eyed elven girl whose dress had come loose from her left shoulder, looked back at her belligerently.

"Go suck an egg," he slurred.

Jaheira punched him in the face. He staggered back, giving the girl an accidental shove – she fell with a shriek unto a heap of cushions – and caught himself against a pillar. He glared at her.

"She-avatar of Helm. What's the bloody matter with—"

"You _completely_ irresponsible—"

"—the bloody matter with—"

"—could have got his throat cut—"

"Look!" Xan bellowed suddenly, clearly. "Gods damn it all…I like you, and I respect you, but if that bloody kid hadn't lived the first twoscore years of his life like a bloody monk, he might not be such an absolute bloody _wreck_—"

"If it is your wish to die, elf," said Jaheira, with a quiet, smoldering, anger, "I beg you, do it, but do not drag the innocent into your sinkhole of self-murder."

"Perhaps if you took a moment to remove that exceptionally long iron rod from out your arse," Xan flung back, "you might come to realize—"

Then, in the giddy, spiraling nightmare that the day had become, there came one final unfolding and revealing. The last strangers made their entrance, and the horror was complete.

The crash of iron-shod footsteps filled the hall. The hawkers stopped extolling their virtues; the patrons stopped their desperate laughter. Felix, Xan and Jaheira all stared slack-mouthed. Men in armor, in a single column, were coming down the arcade. As they came nearer, all recognized the insignia of the Flaming Fist on the militiamen's shields. They crashed nearer and nearer until they finally stopped, and one, the tallest, broke away from the rest. He came forward until he stood in front of Jaheira, then gestured with his right hand. The others, faceless inside their helmets, began to move out in a circle.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Jaheira, faintly.

The Flaming Fist officer removed his helmet. He had thick hair the color of chocolate. "Madam," he said, "my name is Desmond Merzer. I serve the Flaming Fist."

"I am well aware of this. And what is your business us, good sir?"

Xan, rubbing his eyes, tried to stand upright. "I say," he muttered.

Merzer looked from one of them to the next: Jaheira, Felix, Imoen and Xan. He seemed to know them all, and nodded. His mouth was tight. "By the authority vested in me by Grand Duke Eltan, most high sovereign of the city of Baldur's Gate…"

"Found it, Des!" came a high voice from behind them. One of the footmen, small and skinny, stood in the door of the room from which Felix had recently been removed. He held up something gleaming.

Merzer crooked his hand.

"Bring it here."

The footman brought it closer. He held it out to Merzer, who held it down so that the prostrate Felix could see.

"Do you recognize this object, sir?"

Felix regarded it with idiot wonderment. "No."

It was an enormous hunting knife, jagged-shaped, like a canine toot. It was half-drenched in blood.

"You are all under arrest," said Merzer, calmly, "for the murder of Haj Set Kah, Brunos Rockweigh, several others – and Sir Rieltar Anchev."


	26. The Night of Long Knives

Kaili looked at her face in the mirror. She often worried that she looked too young for her age. Her nose was small, for one thing, which should have been pretty and _was_, a little; but it made her look like a schoolgirl, which meant that Sir Dosan would never notice her because Sir Dosan was a _man_ and wanted a woman.

Not like Brunos. Brunos liked her nose, and had told her so, and that made her want to cut it off her face. Brunos was everything Sir Dosan was not – or Sir Dosan was everything Brunos was not: kind, wise and patient.

She splashed water on her face, left the mirror and came out of the water closet. Brunos was sitting on the end of the bed without his tunic on.

"Aw, look at youse," he said.

Brunos was man, but talked like a boy. He was a farmer's son from Beregost, and Rieltar had hired him as chief of security when Brunos had broken Rhavel's head open in a tavern brawl. Rhavel had been Rieltar's previous chief of security.

"Aint youse a l'il cutie," said Brunos.

His bare chest and shoulders bulged like a sack full of rocks. Kaili supposed she should have found it attractive. Brunos has gotten his figure, she had heard him tell Rieltar, breaking rocks in a prison yard.

But it would be foolish to offend him. He may not have been intelligent, but he had Rieltar's ear.

Kaili wore the twice-died nightdress she had brought with her from Sembia. It was her foreignness, partly, that had drawn Brunos to her, and she expected he would like it. She approached him with her head lowered.

She bit her tongue. "My lord," she said.

"Muh li'l Sembyun cutie, said Brunos, his grin revealing uneven yellow teeth like a horse's. He put out his hand and touched the point of her chin with two of his fat fingers, with surprising tenderness. Then he drew his hand back and looked at her. There was something childish, also, in his delight, as if she were an especially fine-made present his mother had gotten him.

He grinned. Then, like a tearing seam on the arm of a tunic, his throat opened up from one end to the other.

There seemed to be a moment – when Kaili could see the pure redness inside the wound – before it erupted, dousing and blinding her.

Brunos' stinking mouth gaped. Underneath it, the wound gaped also, a second mouth, and blood poured liberally out of both. He swayed on his feet a moment, then the entire stack of bone and muscle collapsed, carrying all its wasted strength to the ground.

The eyes rolled back in the head. The look stamped on the deathmask was moronic, animal.

Brushing with trembling hands at her blood-smeared face, Kaili looked mutely around. The room was empty. For a moment, so afraid that her legs threatened to give way under her, she considered if perhaps some god had delivered her from Brunos' hands. Then she noticed something nearly as impossible as the corpse now lying at her feet: in the air above Brunos, where he had stood a moment before, a spot of blood had attached to something that was not there. It hung in the air and didn't fall.

The curtains rustled. Reiltar's curtains: thick, lush and red. She looked, and made a small noise.

A man had stepped out from behind the left hanging. He was like no man she had ever seen before – like no man, she was sure, in all the world. No man.

"Hullo, babe," said Slythe. He balanced a stiletto on the end of his finger.

Kaili sank to her knees in the red pool on the carpet. She stared at the man, like an animal might, not caring whether he meant her good or ill.

"The hick wath right," said Slythe, looking down at her with his heavy-lidded eyes. "Y'are pretty cute."—then he covered his mouth, as if he had let something embarrassing slip, and grinned. "But bleth me, if I oughn't to of thaid that. I'm a married man, ya know."

"Yah, Slythe," came a voice from the empty air, where the inexplicable spot of blood hung. "Yer like to break me heart, you are! And right in front o' me as well! I never."

"Thorry, Krithten, babe. Here, I'll make it up to yas."

He took a step forward. His snakeskin boots gleamed in the lamplight. He moved like a lazy panther, slouching, exulting in his own grace.

Kaili whimpered.

"Ol' country-boy bull-lover there," said Slythe, cutting his eyes at the heap of meat that had been Brunos, "didn't know hows ta treat a thine lady like you, now did he? Here. Let ol' Slythe show ya how we does it here in th' Gate. I'll be real gentle-like, I promith ya."

His forked tongue flickered over his lower lip, over the iron stud. He reached down. Kaili could not have resisted him if the thought had occurred to her: she stared at him, then over his shoulder, shaking and trembling senselessly. Slythe held her.

"There, there," he said, stroking her hair.

"Please," Kaili said, so softly that the wind heard faintly through the shutter was louder. "Please."

"Eh?" said Slythe, his hand running down her back.

Kaili's wide eyes took in the wall – the hard, blank wall, that offered no answer how her life had come to this place.

"My birth-day is tomorrow," she said.

"Oh yah? How old'll youse be, then?"

"Twenty…Twenty-one." Kaili whispered.

Slythe drove the stiletto in at the base of her neck. Without a sound, she crumpled out his arms and on the floor, falling over Brunos.

"Now that's more like it," said Kristen, touchily. She huffed. "_Pretty_ indeed. I never."

* * *

"Mark me now," said Sarevok. "Turn back, and I shall count you among them."

"Fear me not," said Angelo.

The door stood ajar. Sarevok pushed through; Angelo followed.

Rieltar sat at the table, along with a sour-faced, white-haired elf, dressed in chain mail, and an unfamiliar merchant. Rieltar and the elf looked up: the merchant's back was to the door, and he twisted around in his seat. Three pairs of astonished eyes looked up at Sarevok, who was so tall that his bald head brushed the ceiling. Then Rieltar smiled.

Draped in white silk, his dark hair curled and perfumed, he crossed his hands on his belly and smiled up at Sarevok. They shared the same dark skin, but otherwise were nothing alike. The son's face was hard, sunbeaten and wind-harrowed, the proud nose buttressed by pinched cheeks like the prow of a ship. It was set in a cast of vague unease that would have sat better on a scholar than a warrior. The eyes, large and sensitive, never reflected the smooth sounds issuing from his mouth.

Rieltar's face was broad, insensitive, and mounted on sweating rolls of fat. His lips were nearly always contorted in a smile, showing his brilliant teeth. They were false, made of ivory.

"Ah," he said, rubbing his sausage-fingers against each other. "Master Set Kah, allow I to introduce my eldest and dearest children."

His mastery of his second tongue was rough at best. Sarevok had long suspected it was feigned, to scam the locals into underestimating him.

"And," said Rieltar, extending his sweat-drenched hand toward the ghost-like shape of Angelo, his hood drawn, in his Flaming Fist leathers, "a very excellent friends of mine, Sir Angelo Dosans. Of the Flaming Fist."

The merchant, Set Kah, went wide-eyed. "The Fist!"

"Sir Dosans and I – have understandings," said Rieltar, with a pronounced relish.

Angelo stood expressionless at Sarevok's shoulder, like a bodyguard, and did not speak. Set Kah leaned forward. He was an elderly man who wore spectacles, and he adjusted them to peer at Sarevok.

"What a fearsome boy is your son," he muttered. "Surely tall as never there was a man."

"Master Set Kah," Rieltar explained, "is from our homes. He comes to us direct from our – superiors?"

"We are well-met," said Sarevok, faintly. His eyes focused beyond Set Kah, at the white marble wall. He began to take short, nervous steps, approaching the table.

"My son is strong," said Rieltar, and his eyes gleamed like the many rings on his fingers. "And smarts. He goes far for me."

"Indeed," muttered Set Kah.

The sour-faced elf, yet to speak a word, had begun to eye Angelo. Angelo looked uncaringly back. Anyone would have known the look of a man who had recently inhaled a copious quantity of lotus, and the elf was no fool.

It was comical. Such a large boy as Sarevok, his hands like wine-presses, moved with a mincing delicacy until he stood by his father. He kept his head lowered.

"Gracious sire," he said, in his low, musical way. "I beg your pardon for this most wrongful interruption. Allow me to speak."

Rieltar waved his hand. "It is my pleasures, darling boy. Speak what you must."

"If I may," said Sarevok, inclining his head toward Set Kah, "I will address our guest as well?"

Set Kah spread his hands. "My ears are yours, great lad."

"Then I will speak." Sarevok swallowed. More than ever, the scholarly aspect ate at the edges of his hard, cold face. "My sire," he said, "Rieltar Mosef of the House of Anchev, is a man whose greatness is undoubted in all the realms. Truly, from Waterdeep to Calimshan, his great and terrible name is known."

Rieltar said nothing, but watched his son with an oily smirk.

Sarevok swallowed and went on: "When I, this one, was but a wretched foundling orphan, drifting on the tides of fate, my sire reached out his hand to snatch me from the current – not out of kindness, but because he saw gain for himself. And in that he was wisest. For he has taught me, in my turn, to know that gain is all in life.

"Years passed. Then I was a stripling lad, ignorant of all the world, slow and clumsy in my tasks, and then my sire beat me mercilessly. You will agree, Master Set Kah, that he was right to do this?"

Clicking his tongue, Set Kah nodded. "Such is the way of all good parents."

"Indeed. For each blow, then, was like a blow dealt on an anvil, to a chipped and useless scrap of iron. And from each blow – following on each blow – from that scrap, by my father's hand, a thing of beauty and terror was forged."

"You speak well," said Rieltar, lowly, his grin wider than ever.

"Your kind words greatly favor this low one, sire. But I am not finished." Again, he swallowed, and again his enormous hands worked nervously against each other. "There were times," he said, "when, in the night, my heart was fired against my sire, and I thought he had done wrongly by me. My wounds burned where they rubbed against the bed-clothes. I imagined – at times, yea, I even wished his death. Was I not wrong, Master Set Kah, to have these thoughts?"

"Most wrong, boy, yes."

"But I have grown! By the prudence and justice of my father's hand, I have grown past all such childish frailty. Truly, now I am that blade he sought to forge, with his master's hands. And it is to his glory only; none to mine. Is it not so, Master Set Kah?"

"From all I know," said the merchant, "it is indeed as you say."

Sarevok smiled. It was an odd, young, feverish smile, and lasted only a moment. "Then," he said, and sunk on one knee before his father's chair. "I belong to you, sire, and all the fruits of my labor do belong to you, and you alone. You have the credit for all I do. Is it not so?"

"Yes, boy, and you are wise to speak such."

"Then, father – will you allow me to embrace you? Well I know that you detest such womanly show of affection, yet I feel that I must make my feeling known." He looked down as he spoke, and his voice grew higher and quicker. "This once, will you allow it? Though I am but your slave, may I embrace you as a son embraces his father?"

Rieltar seemed to consider. He regarded the sparkling rings on the fingers of his right hand: gold, silver and bone. Finally he smiled. "Very well, boy. Out of the graces of my heart of hearts, I will allow this thing you ask."

"Oh! Blessed heart," said Sarevok.

Then he stood, and Rieltar stood – some two heads shorter than his son, his head buried in the boy's wide chest – and they put their arms about each other. Set Kah's old, doughy face formed into a smile.

The elf, for his part, looking sterner than ever, cast his eyes again at Angelo. He saw that Angelo's lips were moving. His hand went to his sword.

Looking over his father's head, Sarevok stared wildly at thin air. In his arms, Rieltar began to stir, as if wanting to pull away. His voice was muffled in Sarevok's tunic.

Set Kah's smile faded.

A strangled voice escaped Sarevok's embrace: "Sar—son—stopplease—"

Three things happened nearly at once. First the elf stood, drawing a brilliant arc of a scimitar, and in a moment Angelo was on him. Then the small room filled with a cracking sound, loud as thunder. Set Kah gaped. Sarevok Anchev stood with his arms grappled around a sack of flesh, draped uselessly in silks, stinking of perfume. Blood gushed across the floor. He held the body a moment longer, clenching it with a furor that could only, surely, be love, his eyes shut – then let it fall. His entire front was splashed up and down with red. Rieltar was a dissociated heap, arms and legs jutting away from each other at terminal angles.

Angelo caught the elf's sword arm as he finished his incantation, screaming: "_Malakh_!"

The air glowed blue around then: then the elf was motionless, silent, his pale skin turned a darker hue. He had become a stone statue, his eyes set forever in their dumb, suspicious hatred.

Angelo stepped back. He brushed stone dust from his left arm.

Sarevok had begun to laugh. On his knees in the putrid mess, he held his sides and laughed quietly, ceaselessly, until a tear rolled down his cheek. Then he stopped abruptly. He seemed to master himself, and climbed to his feet again.

"_Selah_. It is done," he said.

Angelo did not answer him, and Set Kah could not. The merchant was paralyzed with terror.

All the nervousness had left, like a pox, Sarevok's face. He looked at Angelo with a calm smile, his large eyes gleaming. "So," he said. "I have done it." Another brief spurt of laughter escaped him. "Remarkable. Is it not? Just as the Mind-breaker said. Now I feel that nothing is beyond my powers.

"I am the chief of my own destiny."

"Long live the scion of the house of Anchev," said Angelo, tonelessly.

Set Kah got to his feet and took off on his tottering legs, running in mad silence down the hall. Angelo looked to Sarevok, who nodded.

"_Sah brakh nah_," he said, and lifted his hand.

A larger, invisible hand seemed to snatch Set Kah off his feet, and held his flailing spindly body in the air for a moment. Angelo looked at him, his eyes madly uncaring: then he curled his open hand into a fist.

More blood doused the floor.

"Truly," said Sarevok, shaking his head in admiration. "Great work has been done today!"

Angelo, his clenched hand still raised, said nothing.

Sarevok looked back at the thing that had been his father. His eyes reflected nothing. "Now," he said. "Arrest the men responsible for this heinous deed."

"To hear," said Angelo, "is to obey."

* * *

Later, wandering through the rooms, observing the grotesque but brilliant results of Slythe and Kristin's handiwork, Lieutenant Dosan came across a body that was smaller than the others. Sprawled in the corner of a bedchamber, wrapped in a pretty linen dress, it stood in contrast to the larger, coarser body in the room.

No expression crossed his face, but he shook his head.

"You fool. You little, little fool."

He knelt next to Kaili. Her eyes were still wide open, pained and confused. He reached two fingers and rolled them shut.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

"Slythe"  
Human  
Chaotic Evil  
Fighter: Level 6  
Assassin: Level 2  
Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Brunos  
Favorite Weapon: Short Sword of Backstabbing +3

Kristen Lampeter

Human

Neutral Evil

Thief/Mage: 5/5

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Captain Barrington of the Flaming Fist

Favorite Weapon: Tethyrian Hunting Knife


	27. The Grand Inquisitor

AN: If you like literary in-jokes, _Fury_ is the story for you.

* * *

"The crime you have committed is monstrous," said Angelo, "and I have thought long and hard as to what your punishment shall be."

In front of his desk four figures, bedraggled, dark-eyed and reeking of sin, stared back at him with a single belligerence. They looked the part of criminals; that, no one could deny. Behind his desk, in his glistening leathers, with his new-shaven chin, he was an honest man. He looked at them with a deadness, a disinterest that could have been mistaken for honesty.

He met each pair of eyes in turn. When he had looked beyond Xan, who seemed the calmest of all the captives, his eyes rested on the ceiling as he idly formed the words: "You are each to be hung by the neck until dead. I believe this sentence to be just."

"I know not," said Jaheira, coolly, through gritted teeth, "whether you are a moral idiot, grown, through interminable years of service, immune to all good sense; or if you are in the pay of our enemies. Yet if this laughable inquiry be fair trial, I am no woman, or a servant of my god."

"If you serve the law," said Felix, whose senses had returned only in the form of anger and black-eyed desperation, "then the law is madness!"

"I do not serve the law," said Angelo. "I am the law."

Each word came from his mouth like the final drop of water from an empty jug. His hands rested motionless on the desk in front of him.

"You're an honest bloke," said Xan. "I rather like that."

Two guards, silent behind their shut steel visors, flanked the prisoners.

"Rieltar," said Angelo, selecting each word carefully, "was not a pleasant man. There are many who would not hold you in contempt for your actions. Yet, as a lawman—"

"Enemies," said Felix, and his ashen face suddenly lit, becoming brilliant. He smiled at Angelo. "Like his son. His secret weapon."

The words hung in the air a long time. Xan, Jaheira and Imoen looked at him, puzzled but hopeful; Angelo's eyes slid away. Again, as when he had pronounced the sentence, he looked fixedly at the wall.

"I'm right," said Felix. "Aren't I?"

_Secret weapon_. A man even Davaeorn had feared. If all he had seen of the world had taught him anything, it was that such a man seldom served any master but himself.

"Sarevok Anchev is an upright citizen, prisoner. If, although your guilt is plain, you wish to level so dire an insinuation—"

"So it's Sarevok, is it?"

A second revelation struck Felix like an arrow. If what he believed he knew

_the lord of murder shall perish_

was the truth—what had escaped Khalid's mouth as he lay dying—and if Davaeorn had believed that only _he_ was a match for Rieltar Anchev's son…

The word occurred so powerfully, so terribly, that his mouth nearly formed it:

"_Brother_."

"I beg your pardon, prisoner," said Angelo.

"My brother," said Felix, dizzily; then he shook his head. "No…"

"Dissemble no more, villain," Jaheira cut in. "The truth is plain to all."

Angelo stood in a flap of leather. "I will hear no more!—You have been tried and sentenced, and will die for your crimes. In the name of—"

Now Imoen broke out, throwing herself forward, shrilly: "Whatever he's paying you, we'll double—triple it!"

"No, child," hissed Jaheira, but Angelo smiled.

"Well, well. Courting my greed." He sat again, and seemed to have mastered himself. "Canny girl. But it will do no good: whatever sum you offer, I'll never cross my master—I mean justice," he said, deliberately, smiling. "All I suppose is left – is to make an appeal to my conscience? By all means," he spread his hands, "make your attempt."

"I don't think you're a good man…" began Felix. Still ragged from the night before, bent forward, his eyes roaming like an old lunatic's, he tried to control his voice as it leapt and wavered. "I don't know if you're a good man. But if—I know what it think I know, if it's true – then the master you serve, the master you serve is no ordinary – ordinary man. He's different. Inside. And whatever he plans – it won't just be for gain. I think he's planning something terrible. Great, and terrible. I think – many people will die. And I don't think – I don't think you're such a bad man that you would countenance it that far. You're not like – not like _him_. In the mines. I can see; you're different—" Suddenly he exploded. "_No one_!—No one could look, no one could see the things I've seen—if they were human, they'd have to look away."

Angelo heard all he said. Then slowly, pointedly, he looked away.

"You're young," he said. "Let me give you a bit of advice.

"Everything can be forgotten. Everything.

"Guards, remove the prisoners."

"All manner of rogues lie dead in our path," said Jaheira, as a footman seized hold of her. "You will prove no—"

Then the door swung open.

As a tall tree can stand, undisturbed, for years, never swaying in the breeze, until a sudden vicious storm tears up its roots; so Angelo's face, long motionless, was jolted into a sudden galvanic life. His hands tightened around each other.

A third footman had entered. "Lieutenant," he began, looking distastefully over the prisoners, "we got the last of them. Bitch fought like a wildcat, but—"

Shar-Teel stood in the door. Felix twisted around to look at her: gasping, her right cheek bruised, he thought she looked younger, more vulnerable than ever.

She spat on the carpet, coughing: "Dogs—"

The footman cuffed her across the back of the head with his mailed fist. The resulting crack made even Angelo wince: she staggered.

"Dog yourself," said the footman. "That rug's Calimshite. A yard's worth more than your life." He looked back up at Angelo. "What's to be done with her?"

"She was found in their lodgings?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then she will share their fate," he said quietly.

Shar-Teel dropped to the floor. She spat again, and it came out long, thin and red. Then she straightened with a snap, cracked her neck, and stood tall; the pain seemed to have braced her. She stared at Angelo. He looked back, his eyes still wide and glassy, but no longer indifferent.

Her face slowly changed. Proud defiance, under the grime and blood, drained away. Felix looked from her to Angelo, from Angelo to her.

Angelo looked back at her. When he spoke again, his voice was panicked and rapid: "Take her away. Take them all away."

"By all my scars," said Shar-Teel. "By all my broken bones."

"What the hells are you waiting for, man? Take her—"

"You," said Shar-Teel, her voice small.

Imoen, when she spoke, intruded abruptly and oddly: "Hey hey wait, you guys look just like—"

"_I knew it_!" wailed Shar-Teel, and to Felix it was the desperate, keening lament of a child. "I always knew it. I knew you'd be – like _this_. No man at all. Just some sick—crawling—sneering—_coward_!"

What happened next, happened too quickly for Felix to mark: not Angelo. Shar-Teel made as if to lunge forward, then plunged her elbow into the gut of the footman at her back, gripped his sword by the hilt and drew it with a tug, leapt—

The other two men had drawn their swords too late. She stood on the desk and lashed the sword down, deadly silent.

Angelo had been moved more sharply when he saw her face. Now, his arm moved effortlessly, and he caught the blade on the flat of his hand.

"Gods," mouthed Felix.

There was a sound like a vegetable sliced in two. All present stared as blood flowed down around the lieutenant's arm. The blade had cut to the bone, but he never flinched. Shar-Teel stood motionless until her knees shook: then she dropped the sword. Without a word, Angelo glanced at his bloody hand, then brushed the other palm against it. He muttered a word. The gushing wound closed up, by degrees, then was as sound as ever. He flexed the hand, examined the back.

"If you're quite finished," he said, looking at Shar-Teel with new composure, "my men will escort you out."

* * *

In the cell, the only light came from a single, tiny window, so small that a single bar served to block it. The ray of watery light shone on Shar-Teel, who gripped her narrow shoulders and wept.

Jaheira stood by the window, in darkness. With her cloak drawn around her and her hair tied up in a knot, there was nothing feminine in her profile. She was silent.

"I feel as if my head's fixed on crooked," Felix finally said. His voice was hoarse, and wavered, but there was sense in it. "I need to get it straight…"

"We are sorely disadvantaged," said Jaheira, without looking at him. A general, she seemed not to want to weaken herself by any human display. "Tired; weakened; surprised. We must keep our wits about us if we are to escape this trap."

"It's like a nightmare," Imoen whispered. She sat beside Felix, leaning her head on his chest, and his right arm was draped helplessly around her. "I wanna wake up."

"I just need time…" Felix shook his head. "I need to stop. To think about this. I need a minute…"

"When we escape," said Jaheira, "we will talk. We will talk at length. There is much that sorely needs discussion. Yet for the moment—"

"I say," said Xan. Although, an hour before, he had been half-dead on his feet, he grinned and spoke with a drawling confidence. "Have any of you lot tried the door?"

"What do you mean?" said Jaheira, guardedly, staring at him with an obvious memory of their last encounter.

With an expansive gesture, like a conjurer, Xan reached down and pulled on the iron handle. The door swung open.

"No!" Felix gave a barking laugh. "It can't be."

Shrugging, Xan threw the door back and wandered out, and their astonished eyes followed him. A moment later, though, he returned, and faced them with a scowl.

"No good. There's a corridor, and another door. _That_ one's locked."

Felix sank back down. "Damn."

"Never fear, Master Lightfoot. We've been in worse scrapes, haven't we…"

Now Jaheira spoke, stepping forward, and her face came into the light. "I remain disgusted with your conduct, elf. And I hold you partly responsible for these straits. Yet, as we are fellow-prisoners and—" she clenched her eyes—"_comrades_ still, I suppose, I will bite my tongue for the moment. Show me this door."

Xan, for his part, drew himself up with an exaggerated dignity. Felix remembered that he was older, surely, than Jaheira, and had been royalty, no matter how he looked at the moment.

"I beg your pardon," he said.

"Show me the door, _if_ you please."

"That's a sight better."

"Stay here," said Jaheira to Felix, in the doorway. "Watch them. And – I'm sorry." Then, abruptly, she was gone.

The door swung to, and the only sound was Shar-Teel's muted weeping. Felix looked at her, then at Imoen's soft head in the crook of his arm, then back at her. He sighed.

"You should go to her," said Imoen, softly.

"No."

"She wants you to."

"No she doesn't."

"Go," she whispered, and nudged him.

Pensively, he stood. Several steps brought him to stand by Shar-Teel's brittle body, rocking slowly and gently back and forth. He looked at her, and felt a faint pulse of tenderness. He sat.

"Get away," she said, more clearly than he would have expected.

"It's alright," he said. "We'll get him…You'll get your revenge."

But it occurred to him, as he watched her, that in her heart of hearts, revenge might not be her motive.

He put his hand on her shoulder.

"No."

"It's alright," he said again. "We'll—" He was clumsy, slow. "You're not alone in this, anymore."

"I hate you too. Manchild."

She had stopped crying.

"You've found him, haven't you? That's something."

_And I've found mine_, he thought, and shuddered.

"_Shh_." Sitting upright, Imoen put her finger on her lips. "Hey you guys. You hear anything?"

Shar-Teel, without looking up, went still. Felix listened.

"Yes," he said, after a moment. "Someone – singing."

The voice came to them faintly, drifting from further down the corridor: "_By invisible ties – I am bound to my love – may the gods have mercy; on her and on me, on her and on me, on her and on me_…"

The voice was low and smooth, and reminded Felix first of the dead-eyed Lieutenant, then of a snake.

* * *

Jaheira and Xan stood over him. He sat in the corner of his lightless cell, clutching his own thin body, and grinned at them. He was dressed in fine clothes: silks and satins, and his hair was groomed; but the face, though young, was wrinkled and creased. He was a wretched patchwork.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, in a pleasant enough voice. His grin remained.

"Sir minstrel," said Xan. "A copper for your tune?"

"I wouldn't say no."

Xan flicked the coin to him, and he caught it, greedily, with both hands; then his demeanor changed suddenly, and he tossed it away with a contemptuous scowl.

"Tell me, friend," said Jaheira, markedly taking no notice of his odd behavior, "how did you come to be here? Were you, like us, falsely accused by that blackguard judge?"

"Falsely—?" The young man's eyes drifted. "Oh no. I suppose the accusation was fair enough. Yes, fair enough."

"Singing in the city square without a permit?" Xan guessed.

"Oh, no. You see—" He paused, and his smile grew deeper, wider, like a weed taking root. "I killed my father."

Jaheira stiffened.

"Yes…" he went on. "I bashed in the old idiot's head with a paper-weight. It felt rather like a melon. Or an egg-shell with a melon inside. That bit of resistance at the start, hah, hah." He rocked back, looking at the ceiling. "I suppose you don't think very highly of me.—I set up my brother to take the blame. The drunken idiot never stood a chance – but by the devil's luck, my other brother, the clever one, got the better of me. He presented evidence. I wanted to curry his favor, and I'd bragged to him…But it's all no matter. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm only afraid…only afraid…"

Again his eyes went distant, and he stopped speaking altogether.

Jaheira turned her back. "Contemptible creature."

"Wait." Xan checked her. "What's your name, friend?"

"Smerdyakov."

"Tell me, friend Smerdyakov. Any way to leave this place?—Any way to escape?"

"Escape…" For a while longer, Smerdyakov's face remained slack, then suddenly his smile returned. He chuckled. "Ha, ha. Escape, eh? So you're still clawing your way along. You haven't realized yet. But I'll tell you what, clever fellow. I've got a secret."

Xan leaned forward eagerly. "What's your secret? Friend? Saint?"

"Eh-eh-eh." Grinning more widely than ever, barely able to contain his evil mirth, Smerdyakov shook his head. "Nothing's free in this world. I won't give of myself for free. You'll have to answer – a riddle! Yes, hah, a riddle."

"Very well. What's your riddle, Smerd—Smer—friend?"

"Hmm." His feverish eyes met Xan's, equally feverish, and he pronounced: "I killed my father for quite a few reasons. The old bastard irritated me, for one. But there was a sum of money in it. A sum of money – a hundred times that, for which Ilmater's avatar, during the Time of Troubles, was betrayed by his friend. That sum in gold, rather than in silver. Quite a sum – heh, heh. What was it, clever one?"

Xan looked to Jaheira. For a moment, they thought, and Jaheira was the first to hit on the answer: "Three thousand gold," she said, looking coldly down at the hunched young man. "You betrayed your own blood for the sum of three thousand gold. May the Solars have mercy on your soul."

Smerdyakov broke into violent, rapturous laughter. "Ah-ha, ha! Always worthwhile speaking to a clever man, I say. Very good; very good! But the Solars – ah, the Solars. Ha. Perhaps they will have mercy on me.—Yet wherefore, how, can you say this thing?" His eyes flashed at Jaheira with a sudden cogency. "You. You who are in here, just as I am. And you call me a monster. Eh?"

"I do so call you," said Jaheira.

"Well. Then I suppose – we'll have to see, won't we? Who will have mercy," said Smerdyakov, and laughed again.

Jaheira's skin crawled. She wondered, even now, what could be worth the price of lowering herself in front of such a creature. Even when he tore a stone free with his dirty fingers, beginning to reveal a passageway in the wall of his cell, she felt less relief than a deeper revulsion.


	28. Speaking Bitterness

AN: If any of you guys happen to be readers of the excellent webcomic "Dominic Deegan" (dominic-deegan dot com) and you want a visual reference for Angelo, it's worth pointing out how eerily similiar he is in my imagination to DD's recently-introduced Arcangelo Scarlatti.

* * *

It was evening. A single tallow candle burned on the sill, putting half the room in light. The shutter was drawn; outside, wind lashed the city as the storm continued. The candle would have flickered out in an instant.

Earlier, an officer of the Flaming Fist had called at the inn's desk, searching for five individuals of a certain description who all stood accused of the vilest crimes. The inn-keeper, fingering a twenty-five-gold piece he had not had the day before, replied that he had never seen them.

The worst part of their present situation, reflected Jaheira, as she sat in the threadbare seat at the fireside, was that they had begun to behave, in fact, like criminals.

She sat at the fireside; on either side of her, in similar shoddy chairs, sat Felix and Imoen. Xan stood by the window, his traveling-cloak wrapped around him. The weather had shown that his elven constitution did not take the damp well. He looked through the dark pane, fingering the hem of his cloak with long, knotted fingers.

Shar-Teel sat cross-legged on the floor by Jaheira's feet. In the wake of her tears, she was the most awake, the most ferociously cheerful of them all, determined to prove that she was not the slave of her mood. She sat with her back straight, the only fitting posture for the military conference that this was.

Xan had been the last to arrive. He had come down the stairs without a glance at Jaheira, and now stood looking away from her. She watched him for some time before she cleared her throat, and spoke.

"I suppose that several of you, at least, wonder why I have called you here. Perhaps you had your own designs. In the wake of what has happened – I understand – matters are different, rather, than they might have been…" She broke off uncertainly, but gathered herself and continued: "This evening will be a time for speaking. I so decide, and if you object, you may leave us now and…and go your way."

She looked down at Shar-Teel, who looked back proudly, steadily; then at Xan. Still he didn't meet her eyes. Finally she looked to Imoen, who shrugged, and Felix who tried to smile. Then she nodded and spoke again.

"We have not spoken enough, I think. We have been hard-pressed, hard-driven, and time has been against us ever. Yet now, the stakes have risen higher than I, or – my late one, could have imagined, and if we are to stand against what is coming – this evil thing that we face, that we sense alike, no matter what we know of it – then we must stand together, and we must know and understand each other – and be comrades."

"Here, here," said Felix, unironically, and Jaheira was grateful to him.

Xan muttered something.

"I want each of us," said Jaheira, ignoring him, "to speak our peace, in turn. Then will come the time for decisions. I will speak first."

Now even Xan turned to look at her, stealthily, out of the corner of one eye, and Felix sat up straighter.

"I am a Harper," she began. "My past with that organization is of no importance now, save that Gorion, a man of great importance in this matter, and – Khalid, were alike among those who Harp.

"Our interest is to keep the peace – is to keep the balance. We do not pursue every highway robber in the realms, but evil creatures of extraordinary power, such as Davaeorn Kirth – such as Rieltar Anchev – are our enemies, and we will do all in our power to put an end to their ways. It is our sacred duty.

"Rieltar Anchev was an evil man. Yet from what little I know, I believe that he only sought his own petty gain. It was ingenuous scheme he developed – to slash out his little iron monopoly, while at the same time goading the state toward war with Amn, so as to have a market for his hoards – yet, in the end, only another merchant's scheme. The greatest harm to result from it came form his minions: black-hearted Davaeorn, soul-peddler, and the bandits whom he dealt with. And those men are finished.

"Now Rieltar himself is finished. From what we know—" she inclined his head toward Felix—"the most likely culprit was within his own empire, named by Davaeorn as his foster-son, and by that corrupt lieutenant as Sarevok.

"If Sarevok Anchev truly murdered his father, I doubt he did so out of righteous motives, as Rieltar's schemes have not yet been brought to light – and as _we_ have been most cunningly framed for the murder. Therefore Sarevok is at least as great a serpent as his father, and must be cut down. My duty as a Harper demands I see this through."

"No other motive?" Xan said, quickly.

Jaheira looked straight forward, hard-eyed. "None," she whispered.

The same thought was in every mind, but no one spoke it. The dead man's name was not whispered. Jaheira had said her peace. Finally, Felix stirred, and took up the speaker's part.

"I suppose…" he began, more haltingly, still, than Jaheira; and although his audience was small, he seemed ashamed. Finally he steeled himself. "I don't know whether to call you friends," he said. "Some of you I barely know. Yet we've been through much, together, already, and – will be through more, still. Perhaps. And I'd like to call you friends." He swallowed. "I suppose you've wondering – some of you – yes, even you, the ones who've known me, been with me the longest—" he glanced at Imoen—"must wonder, at times, how a little boy like me could come to be at the center of all this grief. And I wonder myself.

"The fact is – that, as Jaheira says, my foster-father, Gorion, was a Harper. And as a Harper – made by his oath to oppose unnatural evil – he participated, along with Jaheira and – Khalid – in a raid on a temple of the dead Lord of Murder: Bhaal.

"Within the temple were – children. Children sired by Bhaal's mortal avatar, during the Time of Troubles." He tried to smile. "I'm sure you all know the chant.—We were to be sacrificed. So Jaheira tells me. Some mad ritual; it may or may not have done any good. Bhaal may have been born again. Or it may be – that he's truly dead, no more, and there's nothing to mark me different from any other man.

"But I believe that he lives. I have – strange thoughts sometimes. I was raised in a library, in peace, but even then – I'd have thoughts. What the inside of a man's head looked like. What sound a cow would make if you stuck a sword into it. And – I believe, however little, a part of the god lives on in me."

The words shook him less than might have been expected. Looking down at the carpet, he spoke calmly and evenly, if quietly, like a schoolboy reciting a lesson.

"I don't know if I have the strength to hold true against it. I've done things – I've regretted. Bad things. I know there's another man inside of me, an angry one.—But for the most part I'm a mild man. You know me. Not a saint; not nearly a monster."

Shar-Teel, indeed, was smirking, even as her eyes went wide in disbelief.

"But imagine," said Felix, his voice dropping. "Every step I've fought against it. Gorion taught me right from wrong, and Jaheira too – every person in my life – and I did my best to hold true to that. But imagine. If instead of Gorion, and Jaheira, there had been evil men and women in my life. Men who led me down a wrong path. And if, every time – instead of fighting against it – I gave in. And gave in. And let it fester and grow…"

Imoen shuddered. He had told her earlier, in a private conversation, but to see him confess it in public made the truth hard; gave it substance. It was somehow his calm that made it awful.

He looked up. His wide, sensitive eyes, scholar's eyes, met theirs. They had seen less, far less, than Xan or Shar-Teel or Jaheira. Yet in a way, they had seen far more.

"Such a man is my brother Sarevok," he said.

Shar-Teel could not contain herself. "Brother—!"

"I can't be sure of it," he said, looking down again, "but I believe it's true. Davaeorn, mad though he was, believed I was this man's equal. And I'm not such a great swordsman—" again, he made a poor attempt to smile. "All that makes me different from other men is my sire. And Sarevok – Rieltar's _adopted_ child – must have the same sire. And if I know myself, I know him; I know—" he began to speak more quickly, his eyes flashing—"what he's capable of. Not only evil acts, but – what power he's capable of. How strong he must have become. And how strong he _wishes_ to become." Now he shuddered, his calm beginning to disintegrate. "Oh gods," he said. "How strong he must be."

"And you expect this band," said Shar-Teel, looking from one of them to other, without precisely admiration, "to take on this mad son of a god?"

"We do," said Jaheira. "We must. To me – and to Felix – the path is clear."

By the window, there was a light and a smell. Xan had lit his pipe. He stood hunched over the glow, a bedraggled figure in the window, in a widening cloud of smoke.

"We're even," he said, unexpectedly. After a start, Felix realized that he had been addressed.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll recall," Xan said slowly, "that if not for me, that – mad insect-woman, or whatever the hells she was, would have made so much mince-meat out of your leader."

"That was a moonblade," said Imoen. "Wasn't it?—That you had."

Xan scowled around the stem of the pipe. "It was."

"I haven't seen it since."

"It's buried at the absolute bottom of my bloody trunk, that's why."

"It was beautiful," she said.

"It's a gods-damned burden. Weight around my neck," he said, and took a pull. "If I weren't afraid of Corellan's ire, I'd pitch it in some bloody river. And that's the truth." He went on smoking, silent, but they waited. It was acknowledged that his turn had come to speak, and finally he acknowledged it as well. "I ought to go," he muttered. "Just piss the hells off."

"That's not what you said two days ago," Felix reminded him quietly.

"I never said I was for the long haul," Xan shot back, "I said I was safer with you lot, _for the moment_. But I must say, that certainly doesn't look the case now! I just wriggled my way out a bloody noose. Nearly hanged. Honestly. This blighter has the law in his pocket, on top of aught else." He threw up his hands. "Surely you don't believe that this – pitiful band will even stand a chance!"

"We've done alright so far," said Felix.

"Luck. Pure damned luck.—Look, Master Lightfoot, this Sarevok character well aside – I don't suppose you recall that insect-woman, whom I strongly believe to be alive and well?—And no better pleased with your dear leader than before? Or that Sembian conjurer; gods only know what hand he has in this?—Or that mageling policeman?"

"You thought it was safe to go out yesterday," said Imoen, a shade of accusation in her voice.

"Well." Xan lowered his eyes. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

"My thanks," said Jaheira sharply. "Knowing your character as I believe I do, elf, I don't suppose I'll ever do better for an apology."

Xan looked back, and a smile, though a pained, ironic smile, lightened his face. "Very well, madam. Take it as such."

There was a silence. Xan smoked. Finally, Felix spoke again.

"I thought you said it was only a matter of time. Before death found us all."

"Yes, well, that doesn't necessarily mean I'm in a bloody hurry. I've a pipe or two to smoke before then…"

Felix looked to Jaheira, for support, but she only nodded. He returned her nod, and looked back to Xan. "You're not a coward," he said. "You're a brave and good man. I know that."

"Oh, come of it."

Felix spoke with calm assurance. "Xan. I don't need to say anything. Not an hour ago, you saw the man I know you aren't. What he said – you remember, Xan? Do you remember? He spoke more brilliantly than I ever could. He wasn't a bad man, I don't think—" he glanced at Shar-Teel, who avoided his eyes—"but he was a coward. He said that everything can be forgotten. But some things can't. Can they. Xan?"

"You talk big, Master Lightfoot, but you—"

"I've seen you kneeling next to a dying boy, giving him water you needed to live." He spread his hands. "Without a thought."

Xan only snorted, and blew smoke at the cieling.

"We may not overcome," said Jaheira. "Perhaps we will fall. And yet – and, if you apologize, elf, then I accept that apology tenfold – yet, if a mage of your accomplishment stood at our side – we should stand a better chance."

"I will think it over," whispered Xan, looking out the window.

Another silence. Imoen shifted her weight; the fire burned. Then Shar-Teel spoke, startling everyone.

"So your father's a god," she said to Felix. "I don't give a damn, manchild."

"I didn't ask—"

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, more pretty and radiant than ever. "'The lord of murder shall perish.'—It only goes to show. The gods aren't any different from us. Look at them: look at what they do. Look at Bhaal. He was no Dread Lord; he was like _my_ father – a wretch and a coward. Women are vile: greedy, stupid and grasping. And the only thing lower than a woman is a man.

"Men are pathetic. The only thing they care about is having a child – _any_ child, so their own stupid blood will always blight the realms. And that leaves us. The children. To scratch our way through this world once the fuckers are dead."

She spat at the fire; it sizzled.

"The only thing I want to do is kill him. And when I kill him, I will be killing _all_ fathers, everywhere. That's all I care about in life.

"I lost my maidenhood for a fortnight's lodgings. But that's not why I hate him. I hate him for siring me. And that's all. That's all. All other wrongs came of that."

Felix watched her, and his eyes held a judgment he reserved. There was softness there that acknowledged no insult to his gender.

"My way is yours," said Shar-Teel to Jaheira. "Your foe is mine – until my father is dead."

Jaheira inclined her head. "Very well, friend."

"Xan?" said Felix—no answer.

Finally, Imoen spoke.

"It's hard to believe," she whispered, looking slantwise over her chest into the fire. "These days – on the road. It hasn't been a fortnight, has it? Felix. Jaheira. But it seems like longer than the rest of my life.

"Home. I never thought I'd leave. But we all have to leave home someday. Don't we? And maybe there's a way back – somehow. But first, first I think—"

"—we have to go through the middle of the storm," finished Felix.

Their eyes met. There had been a moment of silent, sure communication that neither fully understood. Imoen nodded.

"Davaeorn – told me something interesting," said Felix. "He said that once I'd stood in the middle of thunderstorm, I'd understand something in life."

"And you'd take that madman's word?" said Xan.

"I think he was right. I think there is as much truth to be found in what madmen say as honest men – in what evil men say, as good men." He swallowed. "I will stop my brother for goodness's sake. But also – because I couldn't do otherwise. I feel that this will be the making of us all. And when we come out on the other side – things will be different…"

"That's right," said Imoen. "I'm afraid. Afraid of what might happen to us. I have been – ever since we started. But we've held together. And we haven't lost. Because we've stood by each other."

"You say you have no stake in the matter," said Jaheira to Xan. "Yet, if you run from us – what will you be running from? And what toward?"

Xan was silent a long time.

"Supposing I was to agree?" he began at last, slowly, holding the pipe in his fingers. "Where do we start? How do we even find the bastard?"

"I met someone in the Undercellars last night," said Felix. "He must have been their agent. He must have been the one who planted their 'evidence.'—And he told me he goes there often. To relax, 'after work.' I've spoken with Jaheira, and we believe we can find him there – as well, we should be out of the law's reach."

"They have you sword, Master Lightfoot. Don't they?"

"Yes, they must have taken it."

"Then how will you fight?"

"I have – kept Khalid's sword," said Jaheira, only the slightest tremor in her voice. "Felix will wield it now."

"Gods damn it all," said Xan. "You're set on this. Aren't you?"

"Dead set," said Felix.

"And nothing will dissuade you?"

"Nothing."

A smile spread over Xan's face, rapidly, like fire consuming a scrap of paper.

"You magnificent bastard."

"Will you stand with us? Xan?"

"Heh. Very well," he said, now facing them, and he held out his hand. Felix stood and clasped it. "Till death may do us 'part."


	29. Duel: Four

Davaeorn's Staff of Striking, black as death, worked all down its length with hateful runes, had not been on Jaheira's person at her arrest; she carried it now, like a walking-stick, striking the pavement stones as she went again down the broad arcade of the Undercellars. The sound, like a giant's footsteps, spoke more clearly than any command. The patrons' chattering stopped as she passed. A silence, tight and nervous, spread through the white-fogged halls. Jaheira said nothing. The others, following in tight formation behind – her army; her family – kept the same grim-faced silence; even Imoen.

When she reached the center of the innermost room, marked underneath her feet by a tile frieze of a red-cheeked man gorging himself on grapes, she stopped and smote the frieze with the staff and said: "Bring out Slythe."

Eyes glinted at her, shocked and leery, from the darkness. There was no sound.

"Slythe," she repeated. With a majesty still greater than a general's – a queen's, perhaps – she swung her head around to look at the men stretched out on the cushions; dull-eyed, slack-jawed. Some were thieves and murderers. Others, the innocent, had only come to seek a moment's respite from a strange and cruel existence. For a moment, she could feel pity. No matter how sorry a spectacle they presented, she could no longer insist that the problem of human suffering – the suffering even of the rich, the safe, the provided-for – was mild.

Then inch by inch, uncurling out of a mound of fragrant cushions, moving with lithe and easy majesty, a shape came up in a corner of the room. It stretched and purred. Then, shaking its narrow head, it answered her:

"No need for any bringin' out, now, Mith."

"That's the one," hissed Felix, hard by at her shoulder.

Slythe grinned.

"Pleathur t' meet thuch fine folk," he said, showing his brilliant teeth.

"You would have had us all hanged," said Felix.

"Heh. Well in that, ya'd have been lucky. Many who pass by Thlythe – well, mate, worse happens to 'em than hangin."

There was a silence. Then, as one, the patrons who could shift themselves all staggered to their feet, and ran helter-skelter for the exits, stumbling over themselves, each other, the pipes and pillows; they moved with a prey's determination, too bent even to scream.

Felix and Slythe faced each other as the Cellars emptied. Then Felix unclasped his cloak and flung it aside, and drew Khalid's scimitar to the light.

"This weapon cut down many a better man than you," he said, hoping his voice did justice to the sword's former master. "You are alone and unarmed, and taken unawares. You have no hope. So obey, slave and you will be spared—"

"Thpared, eh?" Slythe snorted, a singularly awful sound. "Thpared. Yah. That's rich. Ya hears that, Krithten me love? Eh? _Thpared_."

He was seized by a childish delight, leaning over giggling until he slapped his knees. Then all his humor fled in a moment. He straightened, looking at them through nearly colorless eyes that admitted no warmth.

Only Xan, hanging back, astute, had been startled by his address of 'Krithten.' The mage looked around, but the room had emptied.

"My baby," said Slythe, beginning to run his forked tongue of his studded lower lip, "she's made herself all invisible-like, tho's you lot can't be oglin' her. But she's here all the same. And what's the more…"

He knelt, suddenly, and Imoen swiftly notched an arrow to mark him – he straightened again, gripping in his left hand a familiar piece of leather-wrapped steel.

"Here'th a nice pieth, eh?" He hefted it. "Could get used to this."

"That's mine," said Felix lowly.

"Oh!" Slythe's eyes went wide in mock-dismay. "Bleth me then! You want I should give it back, mate?"

He erupted in rasping laughter. Then, as if prompted, Xan suddenly bellowed: "_Sakah_!"

Felix, looking squarely at Slythe, was puzzled when no brilliant spell leapt forth to paralyze, maim or destroy the killer. Then he spun around, and saw Shar-Teel struggling with a ghostly blur that had at once become visible. Xan's hand was still raised, pointing at the apparition. Slythe's twisting laughter continued.

Shar-Teel had locked both blades with Kristen, but the assassin, still protected by illusions, seemed to flicker like the black lotus smoke that wound through the room. Shar-Teel's blades slipped like a man's feet of a scrim of ice: a dagger found its mark, and Shar-Teel growled in pain. Blood sprayed the brightly-painted floor.

Seeing Jaheira move in, twirling her staff, and Xan begin to chant another spell, Felix turned back. He marked Slythe standing still as before, looking on, expecting to be entertained.

"Stand!" he yelled, leveling the tip of his blade; Slythe took no notice. "_Stand_!"

Finally, twisting his head about, the eyes rolling slightly afterward like marbles turning in the sockets, Slythe looked at Felix. He smiled. Over the yells and crashes of combat, he said mildly: "Cheerth."

"Oh gods. Look at you." Standing in a wide stance, the blade leveled, Felix looked at Slythe and his face melted into deep and sincere revulsion.

Slythe shrugged, and the sword in his hand jounced. "The only differenth betwixt the two of us," he said slowly, rolling each word slowly over his mutilated tongue, "ith that I – know what I am."

Felix stepped closer, holding his stance; Slythe remained standing easily, letting the sword rest on his hip like a cowherd's crop.

"What is Sarevok planning?"

"Oh…" Slythe's eyes went vague. He seemed to see a vision in the smoke. "Big thingth. He'th sharp, that one. Sharp as a – tack…"

Nervous, madly suspicious, Felix began to circle to right, waiting for Slythe's sudden violent motion—the assassin stood motionless, not even looking after him, as he went on.

"It's war," he said. "It hath to be war."

Felix was quick. "War. Why?"

"Why?" Now Slythe turned his head, and one pale eye glinted amusedly at Felix. "Why not, mate?"

Felix seemed about to speak – then he shut his mouth, and looked at Slythe with blazing eyes. "I don't care to hear another madman vomit out his crazy view of the world."

"Well. You'll have a hard time getting on then. Won't you?" Grinning, Slythe began to move himself, in sure catlike steps around Felix. "Feh – a _man_. What'th that, then? The truth ith we're all a bunch of beasts. So why not make the most of it, eh?"

They stood their ground. Felix dared a look to the side: in an instant, he made out Jaheira leaning over the wounded Shar-Teel in a blaze of white light; Xan stood with Imoen, facing Slythe's barely-visible partner.

In that instant Slythe moved soundlessly and was on him.

A week ago, Felix would have died where he stood; but he moved as quickly, nearly, and their blades met with a screaming toll like a great dwarven bell, drowning out the shouts of Kristen and the others. They came together and fought like dogs, without consideration or quarter, both their skill and grace reduced to a noiseless, desperate fight for the slightest gain.

* * *

Kristen had stabbed Shar-Teel four times between her breasts and belt and the girl lay pumping her life out onto the tiles. Holding the wound with one hand, attempting with her bare fingers to hold the flesh together, Jaheira gestured with the other as she desperately mouthed the incantation. Shar-Teel thrashed and whimpered, and her steaming intestines strained against Jaheira's fingers like a birthing. 

Through the blurring glamour, Xan made out the long serrated knife, like a kitchen implement, that had made the wounds. Then Kristen said loudly: "_Lur nah_," and even her ghostly white form flickered again and vanished.

Imoen stopped the moment before she loosed her arrow, saying in a high panicked voice: "Xan where's she gone to now!"

Xan spat to the side. "Renewed her cloak, bloody hell—_matah_!"

He ended with a gesture and shouted incantation, and a whistling piece of visible metal, streaking from an invisible hand, rebounded off a shield in the air in front of him.

Kritsen threw again. The knife hissed under Imoen's arm, splitting her cloak, but she marked it course and fired straight back. Kristen had moved; the arrow shot ahead and broke on the wall.

"Xan Xan, do it again; do it again!"

"Do bloody what again!" Xan yelled back, moving sideways with his hand raised to fix the magical shield.

"Make her—_appear_!"

"I haven't got another one of _those_—wait a bit. Hang on."

"I'm hanging on!" Imoen wailed, as another knife narrowly missed her ear.

Xan dived. Kristen threw at him, but his body was small inside a large cloak, and the knife only slashed the cloth. Xan hit the floor and rolled and snatched at one of the metal hookahs standing by, and his fingers found the end of a lolling pipe-mouth.

Imoen fired wildly, hoping to buy a moment, and she heard Kristen stumble to dodge the shaft.

Xan sucked his lungs full of lotus smoke and exhaled violently forward. For an instant, like a chance shape of the air, the rolling smoke described a human figure flattened against the wall.

Imoen loosed her shaft. With a hiss and a thud, it went through Kristen's arm and into the tapestry behind her.

* * *

Slythe and Felix were closely matched. Although he moved with the uncanny grace of an animal, Slythe seemed to have little training as a duelist, and his only attacks were an assassin's parallel thrusts. Felix, though he had been trained with the sword, could hardly match his opponent's speed. It was Chung Kae's Walking Stick, and the unnatural way that it seemed to turn aside to deflect Felix's blade, that pushed the odds and finally crowded Felix against the wall, where it was all he could do to avoid Slythe's repeated vicious strikes. 

With a feint, Felix managed to break and stumbled away along the wall, bracing himself with his hand. He had been reduced to the state of a man staving off a beating. Slythe did not smile or gloat, put only pressed on harder, grunting as each blow closely missed – then Felix stumbled.

The fall took his legs from under him: otherwise, his own sword would have parted his head from his shoulders. He rolled over the object that had tripped him, scrambling for purchase, and gained his feet but lost Khalid's sword among the cushions.

He looked at Slythe, half-standing, and felt only a dull regret that his life would end at the hands of such a small, contemptible being.

The object that had tripped him stirred. It was a human being, barely, wrapped in a dirty silk coat, and it shook itself and tried to stand.

Slythe cackled. "Hullo, old man! You want a go next, eh?"

"Leave him—" Felix choked, and held the stitch in his side, "—alone—"

"Aw, I'll let him alone all right," said Slythe, and hefted his sword. "We don't hurt old folks. Do we, mate?"

The man was not old, only wrinkled and sapped by lotus. His filthy black hair hung around his shoulders. He looked at Slythe with blue eyes that still held some measure of sense, and said with faded resolve: "You…let the boy be now…"

"Oh yah? Says who, old boy? Says you?"

Slythe's head twitched as he spoke, and he twitched his weight merrily from one foot to the other. He had entered some kind of high, exultantly murderous state, and he swung his sword without hesitation and cut the man chin to navel.

Immediately he howled and the sword fell out of his hand. He clutched his arm, tight enough to crush it, as it filled with white-hot agony.

Felix didn't hesitate. As quickly as Slythe had swung, he swung; and Slythe's head, like a child's ball, bounced merrily over the tile floor, spilling a trail of brilliant red.

Felix fell on the body and stuck his sword in several times, letting out more red. Then he took up his own sword, wrenching it from Slythe's dead hand, and savaged the limbs, striking off an arm and a leg before he finally mastered himself and fell back, gasping and sobbing.

Imoen reached him as he collapsed backward onto the cushions, surrounded by the stench of lotus, next to the corpse of the luckless man and what remained of the young assassin, Slythe.

"Felix!" she yelled, and hauled him into her lap. "Felix. Felix?"

"I'm alright," he said, breathing roughly, his eyes shut. "I'm alright. I'm alright."

Away from them, by the wall, the air flickered. A body became visible out of nothing. Jaheira, holding the living Shar-Teel, stroking her hair and muttering reassurance, stopped. Xan, rifling through the leather pack that lay by Slythe's body, stopped. Felix and Imoen, holding each other, stopped.

Kristen stood visible in front of them. The arrow held her arm, and blood pumped liberally out of the wound, but her attitude of frozen horror seemed to have no relation to the wound.

They saw a short, chubby woman with mannish hair, and a freckled face. Nothing about her seemed extraordinarily attractive. She wore a plain white tunic, and she gaped at the scattered pieces of Slythe and opened her mouth and wailed.

"No—_no_!"

Jaheira looked away. Xan stood up, dusting his hands. "Shut it, you. We'll deal with you anon."

Felix and Imoen, though, regarded her with a good deal more surprise.

"His bag has letters," Xan called to Felix. "They might serve to throw a bit of light on this mess…"

"Slythe," Kristen moaned, mauling her face with her free hand, straining against the arrow. "Slythy. Slythikins. Aw, no. Gods no. It aint so. It aint bleedin' _so_—!"

She broke off, sobbing.

"The guard will be along to take care of _you_, wench," said Jaheira.

She got to her feet, helping Shar-Teel. Xan threw Slythe's leather satchel over his shoulder. Felix muttered a brief prayer for the dead over the man Slythe had killed.

As they walked away, keeping silent and close together, Kristen's furious words winged after them: "Yew_ killed my Slythe_! _Bastards_! Bleedin' bastards…"

Then the door to surface slammed behind them, and the words stopped.

* * *

**Behind the Scenes**

Felix Lightfoot

Half-Elf

Neutral Good

Kensai: Level 6

Strength: 15

Dexterity: 18

Constitution: 16

Most Powerful Foe Vanquished: Slythe


	30. Carry That Weight

AN: It's a bit late now, but if you look back, you can see Slythe and Kristen's stats (along with Kristen's last name) after chapter 24.

* * *

"And you have traveled here alone?" said Dermin, again, a touch of impatience with the ritual distinct in his voice.

"Those who Harp," Jaheira answered flatly, "are never truly alone."

There was a slant to the words, as if she did not truly believe it.

The partition went up, and Dermin's eager face appeared. "What have you learned?" he said breathlessly. "And why does the Fist hunt you and your friends like hares?"

"The second matter," said Jaheira, without a glance at Dermin, "is of no importance whatever. But to the first…" She reached into the folds of her cloak, and drew out a long, fragrant-smelling roll of parchment. Dermin's eyes, as her own had done when Xan had first presented it to her, went wide with astonishment. He read it over once, then again, then once again.

"I see," he finally muttered.

"This makes some sense to you?" said Jaheira. "An invitation to the Ducal palace?"

Dermin's hawlike attention mellowed into a sly, distinctly Harper-like smile. "I forget myself. Of course – living as fugitives this past pair of days, my friend, you will know little of the goings-on in the city."

"Speak plainly, friend."

"It may interest you to know that Sarevok Anchev is to be crowned a Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate, on the morrow."

Now it was Jaheira's face that slackened, amazed. In Dermin's smile, there was a touch almost of glee. "How," whispered Jaheira, and swallowed. "However did he manage…?"

"Oh," said Dermin, waving his hand, "Citizen Anchev the Junior is quite popular in the Gate these days – since, after his father's most regrettable demise, he tendered a public apology for the Elder's philandering, strong-arming and iron-hoarding…and volunteered to surrender to the city treasury, all the Elder's ill-gotten gains – for the sake of the coming war effort against Amn."

"Coming war!" Jaheira nearly shouted.

"Oh, war is near, precious near indeed. Angry words have already been exchanged at conferences. Any day, the guard is expected to mobilize – strictly defensively, of course, but we all know where such things lead. Do we not?"

Jaheira was silent, brooding, her hands clasped in her lap. Then she said thoughtfully: "Who is he to replace?"

"Supported by the testimony of a one Angelo Dosan, a highly-placed officer of the Flaming Fist, Sarevok had cast dire aspersions on Sir Grand Duke Eltan. Eltan, sadly, has taken gravely ill, and cannot answer the charges against his person – thus, in the interim, with the endorsement of Sir Dosan and others, Sarevok is to claim Eltan's station. The ceremony, as I said, is set for the morrow."

"Supposing," began Jaheira, her quiet voice betraying a great despair with the world and with men, "two Amnish assassins – a man and a woman – were to infiltrate the ceremony, and attack the Grand Dukes Belt and Silvershield. The Fist would intervene, of course, but too late – and both great men would tragically be slain. They would then attempt the life of the final, newly-crowned Grand Duke, but now the Fist would miraculously repel them – led, no doubt, by Sir Angelo Dosan himself – and Sarevok, to the immense relief of all present, would survive. And doubtless claim all executive power for his own, in the face of such a dire emergency.

"Why, then, the military case against Amn would be plain and irrefutable. Would it not?"

"Indeed," said Dermin, darkly.

"What man could argue," Jaheira whispered to herself.

"You know what must be done," said Dermin.

"There were letters in the bag, implicating Sir Angelo Dosan in the work of those two killers. They may or may not stand in a court of inquiry, but they are enough to create great doubt – enough to launch an investigation of Sarevok Anchev, and all his holdings. And once that investigation begins, I have no doubt that all manner of evil, crawling things shall be brought to light," said Jaheira, with a certain grim relish.

"At very least," Dermin agreed, "it will be enough to put a stop to the coronation."

Jaheira stood.

"Are you equal to this task?" said Dermin, a note of real concern in his voice, betraying his station. "Sarevok is no mean foe; you know this. He has mastered both friend and enemy, and we know that several famous rogues, none of them to be estimated lightly, have rallied to his standard – the thankfully dead Slythe, scourge of this city for several years, only the least among them."

Jaheira looked straight ahead as she spoke. "I do not fear death, Dermin. I have seen its face. My only fear, now, is for others."

Dermin said nothing, and she went no further. He looked at her, and she did not look back. Finally he spoke, uncertainly: "What we expect never comes to pass. And what we had least expected, fate brings about. Eh, friend?"

"Perhaps," said Jaheira. "But what is coming – has, perhaps, been coming a long time. And perhaps I have known it."

Then in a spectral wash of pale garments, she was gone.

* * *

The storm clouds still massed, and as the day slid into evening, the darkening sky made little difference. Felix sat cross-legged on his bed by the light of a candle. A hard wind shivered the pane. A light knock, and he opened his eyes and said softly: "Come in."

He had expected Imoen, or perhaps Jaheira, put the yellow head that peeked warily around the door belonged to Shar-Teel. He looked at her mildly, surprised but not alarmed. She looked at him with an automatic revulsion, that seemed to weaken and wane the longer their eyes held contact. Finally she looked down.

"You – showed yourself pretty well today," she said, indistinctly.

In spite of himself, and the coldness and dread he felt, which were anathema to any kind of normal feeling, Felix colored a little.

"Well enough, I suppose," he said.

"I don't apologize for any words I might have slung at you in the past – what's done is done – but from now on…I would call you my comrade."

"I have always called you comrade, from the moment you joined arms with us."

"May I come in?" she said, belligerently.

Felix spread his hands. "Of course. You were always welcome."

"Hmph." She sauntered in, looking distastefully around, though the barely-furnished room could not been much unlike her own, and stood well back of Felix. She had removed the heavier part of her patchwork armor, and in her rags and bindings, looked like an unusually strapping beggar girl.

"I'd offer you a chair," Felix said with a wan smile, "if I had one."

She squinted at him. "You've changed, man—child."

She seemed to consider addressing him with greater respect, but unable to decide what to call him now, fell back at the last minute on her regular title.

"Have I?" he said. "We haven't known each other that long, have we?"

"Even so." Her eyes passed over him, now without revulsion or scorn; only the warrior's calm appraisal. "You were a boy when I met you."

He smiled. "Am I a man now?"

"Hah." She smiled back, bitterly. "And would you be pleased if I told you yes?—I told you, a man's the only thing in the world more despicable than a woman. You've…" She hesitated; and, in her hesitation, Felix beckoned her closer. After doing so, it struck him that even such a small thing perhaps betrayed a courage, one he had lacked even a short time past. She acquiesced, surprising him further, and settled cautiously at the foot of the bed, as far from him as possible. She sat with her body tensed together.

"Perhaps," she said carefully, "there is something that isn't man or woman. A better thing. And perhaps – _slowly_, manchild, don't get a swollen head – perhaps that's what you're fighting toward. Slowly.

"A _man_. Like the ones in story books. Maybe it's possible…" She shook her head suddenly. "Hells. I don't know. Haven't you got anything to drink?"

Felix blinked. "I have spring water, in a bottle—"

"Not like _that_, you daft half-elf," Shar-Teel hissed; then gave a powerful sigh, blowing her hair about, and fell back against the wall. Somehow, her anger seemed to put her at ease, and some of the tightness left her arms and legs. Her knee nearly brushed against Felix's. Seeing it, he drew back. After a moment, looking away from him, she said in a tone somewhere oddly between satisfaction and resentment: "I have a little whisky…in a flask. You can have some if you like it."

"I – thanks. Yes."

She was deathly silent as she uncorked the flask, and still without looking at Felix, passed it to him. It was cold in his hand. At that moment, the wind threw itself against the black glass of the pane with renewed force, and it occurred to him, for no clear reason, that her lips had touched the mouth of the flask before his.

He drank. He had never tasted liquor before, and he gave a brief shudder.

"Thank you," he added again, uncertainly, and held the flask out.

In retrieving it, she moved the slightest distance closer to him. She drank. "I almost died today," she said.

"Not your fault. They were good; I could have died as easily…It was chance that saved me."

"That's not what I mean," she snapped. "Don't you think—oh gods, you don't really think I'm _proud_—I don't give a damn if I was brave or not; quick or not. I'm still alive, and I haven't done the one thing on earth I promised to do; that's all that counts…"

She stopped. Felix waited patiently, watched her. The firelight played in the complex patterns of her unwashed hair.

"We're both pretty young," she finally said. "Aren't we?"

He nodded.

"We should have better lives than this."

He nodded again.

"I know – I _know_ how _normal_ people live. The pigs. I've seen noble children. Well-brought-up children. I know what I ought to have; I know what I freak I am…"

"Many people in the world don't have half as much as the others," said Felix. "And very few have what they want."

She glowered. "I suppose you're right."

"I mean to say – you've had a hard time of it. But it's made you tough and smart. Hasn't it?"

Allowing herself the smallest grin, she said: "I suppose you're right there, too, manchild…but there's days…oh hells. Days when I'd trade it all for…"

Again, she stopped, and glared at him suddenly as if he had forced the confession from her at sword-point; then turned and glared at the wall. Then she shook her head and took another drink.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Oh shut up." She drank again.

"The world's a pretty terrible place," said Felix. "It's not like the one I read about; I've been thinking that a long time. Fathers bury their children. Children kill their fathers. People buy and sell other people. And young lovers – are beasts and killers. It's not what it ought to be. It's the _opposite_ of what it should be. But I don't know. I think you can see – that how mad it is, is what makes men like that. It's an odd thing to say – I'm sure only a child would say it – but sometimes it looks like, even the worst of them, even Slythe and – and Davaeorn, they're just trapped in the same boat with us…The world where parents bury their children and children are bought and sold…

"They're all trying to get along," he said, and shivered.

"Then I suppose the real villain," said Shar-Teel, staring at the mouth of the flask, "is the father of all fathers – Ao, God Almighty."

Felix nearly laughed. "It would seem that way. But then the world is evil, and – I can't think that. I have to believe there's some kind of good – no matter how hard it might be to find. Or do.

"I can't be like Sarevok. That's all I know. Even if that _is_ the solution – the solution to all this mess…I don't _want_ to be like him."

The wind raged, muffled, and the candleflame swayed from side to side, throwing the shadows around the narrow room. Neither spoke for some time. Shar-Teel, remembering prudence, capped the flask again and inserted it with some difficulty back inside her clothes. Felix watched the process, his eyes wide and dreamlike.

"Are you afraid?" he asked her.

Shar-Teel had a soul like a hedgehog, fierce and wary; but she was right, he reflected, pride had never been among her faults, and he knew she wouldn't flinch from the question.

"Were you dropped as a child? Of course I'm scared," she said.

He nodded. "Me too. I don't think I've ever been so afraid in all my life."

"But it's not…" She began. "It's not – only death you're afraid of. Is it?"

He nodded again.

"You say the first half of yours," she said, peering at him sideways, "and I'll say half of mine."

"Aright." He smiled. "I'm not afraid of what happens if my brother kills me…"

"I'm not afraid of what happens if my father kills me…"

"I'm afraid of what's going to happen if he doesn't," they finished, almost together; then, embarrassed, they averted their eyes. Strangely, even as she looked away, Shar-Teel inched closer across the bed, as if accidentally.

"Am I going to kill my own brother?" said Felix, wonderingly. "It would almost be better if he killed me. Gods. I can't imagine it. He killed his own father – because he was more terrible than him. He killed _my_ father because he was stronger, more terrible than him. And if I kill him – won't I be – more terrible than he was?"

Shar-Teel heard him, but she gave no answer, speaking her own piece instead: "If he kills me – he was damned to hell anyway. And if he kills his own daughter, the devils will inflict worse torments on him than _I _could ever devise. But if I kill him. There'll be nothing left of me. What am I going to do after that? Where am I going to go?"

"What am I going to be?" said Felix.

"I never learned…I never learned anything else, but how to hunt him down, and kill him. Nobody loves me. And I – don't love anyone…"

"No one?" said Felix.

She looked back at him, her face looking stark and harrowed in the candlelight. "No one," she said.

Her hip brushed against his foot. He inched back further, curling against the wall, and said softly: "That isn't true."

"I'm just the same as you," she said. "The same as your brother. I was made for killing. I don't know anything else."

"You've never had the chance—" he started to say.

Then she pounced, as Slythe had, without warning; and, crushing him back against the wall, she gripped his face and kissed him.

* * *

In the drafty, lightless basement of the Flaming Fist compound, Angelo poured another measure of brandy into a cut-glass tumbler and held it out at arm's length.

"To keep out the cold," he said mechanically – for no one's benefit but his own. His voice had grown dull and bleary. He drank. A pipe of lotus, half burnt out, barely smoldered at his elbow, already choking on its own ashes.

* * *

"_From dust the world was born_," Sarevok Anchev intoned in Sembian, and placed another pinch of incense into the brazier. "_Into dust it shall return. Selah._"

* * *

On a narrow iron cot, without a mattress, his body lying like a weightless husk on the bars, Semaj Ahil-Nezar twisted about in his sleep, groaning the name: "_Kaolla_…"

* * *

Jaheira stood by the window, calmly sleepless. She looked at the city lights, and was astonished, almost to the point of the tears, by the lack of feeling in her breast. There was no sorrow, no fear: she was only standing by the window, holding her robe with one hand, looking out at the city lights.

* * *

Underneath a sewer grate, in the filth and damp and pure darkness, a black form lay curled up on a ledge. It stank of iron rust and magic. It had not eaten in three days, and was only sustained by hatred, fueled by the auspices of a hateful god; barely living, scarely a human being. If it truly slept, then its dreams were ugly things indeed. But it had once had a father, and a mother, and a sister named Bethsaida.

* * *

Xan ran his aged hand over the gold-stitched sheath of the Moonblade, Corellan's favor. He did not feel favored. He remembered a female elven voice calling back to him mockingly: "Oh, who's afraid of Ardennor Crush? _You'll_ protect me, won't you…"

* * *

Imoen whimpered in her sleep and clutched her pillow, as if it were a human form.

* * *

"Make me young again," whispered Xan.

* * *

In Semaj's dreams, he was a boy, running laughing alongside a glancing stream in a far-off, sunny land.

* * *

_If only_, thought Jaheira, looking out the window. _If only._

* * *

Shar-Teel drew back, and for a moment, a thin transparent rope, tinged faintly red, remained connecting their lips.

Felix swallowed, licked his mouth, and tasted blood. He put a hand on his mouth. His lower lip was bleeding freely. Shar-Teel, crouching over him, breathing heavily, licked her lips. She tasted his blood. Then she made a revolted face, screwed her mouth, and spit explosively over the side of the bed.

* * *

"_Felix_," Imoen whispered in her sleep. "_It's gonna be okay. Okay?_"

* * *

Angelo, holding his empty glass, attempted feebly to sing a snatch of an old sea-shanty: "_Oh when I was-a young man…a settin-out to sail…_"

* * *

Felix and Shar-Teel kissed again, and again, and each time she drew back she made as if to throw him away, but they kissed again.

When she drew back finally, her face was wet, and she pushed him away and said: "Get off."

Felix, leaning against the wall, looked up at her and smiled.

Shar-Teel got up, brushed at her rags – but they had been disordered before – turned her back to him, and went to the door.

"Wait," he said.

She stopped, but didn't look back.

"I understand."

"Oh shut up," she muttered. "You don't understand anything…manchild."

"Until tomorrow," he said.

"I'm not afraid," she said, and went out and closed the door behind her.


	31. The Breaker

AN: Yes, I'm aware that an episode here bears a suspicious resemblance to something from Harry Potter. I didn't realize until after I'd written it.

* * *

The day of Sarevok's coronation dawned pale and cold. Summer was giving way to Autumn. The rains had abated again, temporarily, leaving huge dark swathes of standing water along the roadsides, and citizens had begun to pull themselves out from under the sodden thatch of their roofs. The sun was a white suggestion behind a bank of clouds. Horses moved noisily over slickened paving-stones.

Even the brilliant face of the Ducal palace was dimmed; no light to sparkle over the brass and gold that trimmed the windows and cornices. The stained-glass windows were dull. The building, before it had been claimed by the Council of Dukes some three years back, had been a temple of Lathander, and the Lathanderite's taste for ostentation marked its design. Perhaps in revenge for the appropriation, the Morning Lord refused to look on it now.

In past times, the priest had entered for the morning service through a narrow door to the right of the altar. A stained-glass sunburst, mounted high in the panel, would have given him a view of the congregation before his entrance, and it was through that panel that Sarevok now peered, waiting as Grand Duke Belt made an end to his speech.

"Perhaps the fool will be silent when I put my armored thumb through his windpipe," he said, lowly, heard by no one but his entourage.

"Patience," said Angelo, in the dark behind him.

"_Patience_," Sarevok repeated, with an ironic emphasis. "Patience."

"This is the stuff of politics, Sarevok—" Angelo's voice waxed loud, warning. "Belt is favoring you. The length of the speech is only proportionate to the distrust of the hearers. He knows this measure is abrupt, and strange; but he thinks it necessary, and he will argue for us. We should count ourselves lucky—"

Bracing his hands, in their black spiked gauntlets, against the door, Sarevok muttered: "So near. You can't understand it, Dosan. You, who have no ambition. To be so near to the throne, and to have to such a narrow-minded elderly fool, yea, even for a fleeting instant, stand in the way…They should all bow before me," he finished suddenly. "Simply on seeing me, they should all sink to their knees…"

"So they shall," said Angelo. "But first, you must wait."

"I am sick to my teeth of waiting." He paused, and the faint, hard drone of Belt's voice, the humorless drone of the veteran soldier, pierced the door. "It would almost be too much," he whispered. "To prostrate myself before that crowd. To beg their favor. By the Void—to hold out my limbs to that stinking mob; let them get a hold of me…Pretend as if I was their _friend_."

He pronounced the word with such revulsion, and such a promise of violence, that even cold-blooded Angelo shuddered in the darkness.

Then Belt's voice stopped.

"It's time," hissed Angelo. "Go. Take your crown."

Sarevok put his hand on the door and shoved.

"—to present to you, foremost citizen and pillar of civic duty," Belt went on, in his clipped military tones, "Sir Sarevok Anchev!"

There were no cheers from the crowd. As he had expected, they sat cautiously, some with their arms crossed, appraising him. Perhaps half the full muster of the Council of Lords was present, twoscore men and women seated on the hard stone benches in the sanctuary. The others had stayed at home; frightened, perhaps, by rumors of sudden inexplicable deaths, and doings that simple men did best to keep clear of.

Belt was aware of the rumors too. His tough, lean face was as chary as any in the crowd, although he had sung Sarevok's praises, and so was Duke Silvershield's beside him. Both old men stood to the left of the altar, flanked on either side by Flaming Fist guards, both dressed in their ceremonial armor. They had served together in the Orcish Border Wars, and were no fools.

Sarevok came forward. There was no sound in the sanctuary but the ringing of his mailed feet on the tiles. He wore half plate, for a formal appearance alike to the other Grand Dukes, and carried his horned helmet under his arm. The expression on his young face was learned, mild and politic. A procession of six Flaming Fist soldiers followed him, marching slowly in formation; then Angelo, wearing no armor but a black cotton tunic; then an old Sembian man, dressed as simply as possible in faded robes, clutching a stick; who had earlier been introduced to Belt as Sarevok's old tutor and advisor, Lamalla Su. This procession moved sedately across the front of the sanctuary. The soldiers arrayed themselves in front of the altar, and, at Angelo's signal, snapped stiffly to attention. Lamalla Su established himself in the shadow of a tapestry, quickly forgotten by eyes that followed the new Grand Duke. Sarevok crossed to where Belt and Silvershield stood, and gravely shook hands with both.

"Sarevok Anchev," Silvershield addressed him, in a booming voice. The elder of the two Grand Dukes sported enormous silver moustaches.

Sarevok, with a measure of self-command that might have escaped his audience, sank on one knee. "My Lord."

"The State is in peril," said Silvershield. "We are threatened by war—"

"—by civil unrest—" added Belt.

"—and by want of iron. You are a stranger among us, Sir Anchev: a pilgrim from the land of Sembia. Yet, were you instated as interim member of our council, do you swear to uphold our law, and to love our customs, and to protect our good?"

"With the gods as my witness," said Sarevok, humbly, "I love this country as if it were my own."

"Very good," said Belt, though his face did not relax. He turned stiffly to the crowd. "Does any man present, then, object to the coronation of Sir Sarevok Anchev, as Grand Duke of the Commonwealth of Baldur's Gate, in the place of Sir Roger Eltan?"

No one spoke. Nobles shifted on the benches, but all was silent. If Belt had asked for a voice in support, perhaps, he would have got much the same response.

The Duke turned his gray head back toward Sarevok, who still knelt, quietly obedient, at his feet. He hesitated a moment longer, and the silence filled the damp, high-vaulted hall with an oppressive quality, such as might have developed among a crowd of awkward children. Sarevok had more power than he imagined. Protocol, politics, and a sense of civic duty bound Belt's hands, blunted his soldier's instincts, and worked his jaw as he opened it to speak the words: "Then by the power vested in this assembly, by the will of the people, I hereby declare—"

The wide double doors swung open. Candelabras, set to light the hall in the absence of the sun, danced wildly as the wind came in, and the nobles shuddered and looked about. An excited chattering immediately broke out all up and down the hall. Belt waved his hands, barking:

"Order!—Order!"

Sarevok, his head still bent by the Duke's greaves, allowed himself the narrowest smile. Then he heard a greater body of footsteps than he expected, and looked up in a sudden panicked rage.

Angelo, standing by his men, muttered a curse. It was not Slythe and Kristen who sauntered in, already drawing their weapons. Five figures, all wearing heavy, soaking traveler's cloaks, like the uniform of an indigent army, moved in close formation down the aisle. A few nobles reached out, making feeble attempts to detain them – one of the foremost, a woman, coldly announced:

"We are here legitimately; we presented our invitation to the guard."

Sarevok was on his feet. Angelo, cutting his eyes at him, made a quick sharp gesture meant to check his anger; but it was useless. A low, animal growl rose in throat, unmistakable in the funereal near-silence.

With a wary glance at Sarevok, Belt went forward to meet the new guests.

"Citizens, if you please—"

The young man who moved at the head of the group stopped in front of Belt, and threw back his hood. Under his dripping hair, with his cheeks flushed through, he said breathlessly: "We must be allowed to speak."

"All in its proper time," answered Belt, drawing up his considerable height. "If you will be seated—"

"We are here," said the young man, loud enough for every man present to hear, "in the place of two assassins – the infamous Slythe and Kristen, my lord. They were sent here to take your life. Instead, we slew them, and have come hence to warn you."

The muttering that had begun at his entrance grew still louder. Again, Belt gestured for silence, even as he hissed loudly: "Ye gods, man, do you realize what you're saying! I certainly hope you have evidence—"

"We have letters," said Felix, "written by Sir Angelo Dosan to the assassin Slythe; and that furthermore link both of them to the employment of Sarevok Anchev."

Duke Belt gaped. He would surely have turned them out, if what he heard did not cleave so precisely to his own suspicions; never voiced, scarcely recognized in his own heart.

"Come, now," said Sarevok, standing by the altar, in a voice that was a degree too hard to convince. "Surely the word of such a bedraggled hooligan—"

"I know that man," said Angelo sharply, desperately. "He was arrested not four days past, for the murder—"

"You stand accused at well, Sir Dosan," Belt answered evenly.

"Stand accused—!" Although his heart had long ago cooled, so that very little could anger him, Angelo scowled.

"This ceremony is suspended until the evidence may be reviewed," said Belt; and Silvershield, his jowls quivering under his moustaches, nodded emphatically.

There was a moment of absolute stillness. Even the nobles, eyeing the altar mutinously, were silent. Then Sarevok growled again, and nothing, not even Angelo's pounding footsteps as he crossed the floor toward him, could disguise it.

Felix looked at Sarevok, triumph in his eyes. "Sir Anchev seems distressed," he said. "More distressed than befits an innocent man…"

Angelo caught Sarevok's arm, muttering furiously: "Calm yourself, friend; this matter is trifling; I will see to—"

But the growl built until Sarevok's entire massive frame, incased in iron, corded with muscle, shuddered; then it erupted in a scream that shook the gilt chandeliers and trembled the altarpiece, and knocked the nobles against each other on their benches. Angelo, standing beside him, clapped his hands on his ears and flinched like a man struck; Felix and Jaheira, even in their moment of victory, wilted before the terrible power of the sound. It seemed to come directly out of the deepest place in Sarevok's soul, where there was no justice, no moderation, not even shrewdness; only a bottomless well of anger, with everything and all in creation.

As the sound fled his lungs, so all Sarevok's appearance of humilty seemed to fall away like fetters; and he stood in the hall, made bright by candles, taller than he had ever seemed before. He towered over Angelo, over his own soldiers; over the two old Dukes, and over Felix and all his company, unchained and furious.

"_Worms_," he said, and his voice, still deep and sonorous, now held no trace of civility.

Voices answered him from the seated nobles: "Villain!" shrieked one; "blackguard!" "deceiver!" "Amnish spy!"

Again, Angelo seized his arm, gasping: "Oh for your father's sake, don't be a gods-damned _fool_"—but the far taller man threw him off, and sent him sprawling.

"My name," he said slowly, and each word shook the room, "is Sarevok Anchev. I am a god among men. A fox among the sheep. Which among you crawling, despicable _things_, would _dare_ to even _look_ me?"

Turning to the crowd, Felix shouted: "Look! Look at the man you would have called your Duke!"

To the Flaming Fist soldiers at the rear of the sanctuary, Silvershield, once again the soldier, bellowed with grand authority: "Guards; what the hells are you waiting for! Seize this man!"

They were to be his last words. Sarevok, as easily as a carpenter or a cook would handle the lightest of their tools, drew the two-handed sword from its sheath across his back with a scream of metal, and sheathed it again in Duke Silvershield's chest. The iron breastplate tore clean through with a groan; the old, red face gaped, spitting, over Sarevok's shoulder. Then he tore the sword out.

It was Imoen, turning back on the crowd, who cried: "Oh god, god; get out of here! What're you waiting for; get out of here now!"

Again, as the rabble in the Undercellars had fled when Felix crossed swords with Slythe, the nobles were on their feet. A few sensible men took charge to shepherd the rest; some screamed over the tumult for calm, others ran ahead to open the doors.

It was well they did. Felix knew, seeing Sarevok standing gasping over the corpse of Silvershield, that he would have massacred every one of the helpless men and women to satisfy the voice of his wrath. He knew for reasons he would sooner not have admitted.

Drawing his own sword, the ceremonial cavalry saber – no match for Sarevok's enchanted steel – Belt charged across the floor, screaming: "Bloody lying coward! In the name of the city I'll—"

Sarevok, panting, shuddering, seemed incapacitated with feeling; but when Belt came at him, with the slightest effort, he spun around and swung the great sword. There had been no contest. It tore straight through the man and his armor alike, and the few nobles left in the hall, who had stayed behind to hurry the others out, all groaned and covered their faces. Belt fell in two halves before the altar, and inconceivable sheets of blood were spreading across the floor in all directions.

For all he had expected carnage, Felix gaped, and almost lacked the sense to reach for his sword.

Jaheira readied Davaeorn's staff; Xan loosed his fingers for casting; Imoen struggled to string her bow – but it was not Sarevok, bloodied and burning, who made the next move; but Angelo, gray-faced, kneading his forehead with both hands as he screamed: "You twice-damned, thrice-damned _lunatic_!—What god filled my head with madness, that I threw in my lot with you? Semaj! _Semaj_! What the hells are you waiting for; get us out of here, you shit-for-brains Sembian!"

Sarevok was too far gone to pay his words any mind, and limbered his sword as he turned to face Felix. Felix was ready. Finally loosing his own sword, he held it, still sheathed, before him. Then he saw Semaj.

No supernatural glamours protected the old man now. Stepping out from the shadows, his face as distressed as Angelo's, he raised his hands without ceremony and began to chant.

Angelo rushed back toward him; his own footsoldiers, who had proven their allegiance once and for all when they failed to protect the Dukes, moved forward to cut off Felix.

"_Sarevok_!" Angelo bellowed. "Sarevok, for your divine sire's sake—"

Visible energy, all manner of violent colors, had begun to fill the air around Semaj's circling fists. Imoen hissed to Xan: "What's he doing?"

"Only one thing he could be doing," Xan whispered back, peering keenly at him. "Only one way to move a large body of men at the drop of a bleeding hat…Going to shift them using the astral plane. But I know a trick worth two of that…" And he began to chant as well, waving his hands: "_Incertus…polcah…imperio…_"

Belt's lifeblood, still oozing from both parts of the luckless man's body, reached the toes of Felix's boots. He took a step back.

"_Verah_!" yelled Semaj; at the same instant Xan yelled back: "_Vertue_!"

Sarevok had dropped his helmet when he butchered Silvershield. He stared at Felix, barefaced, and Felix stared back at him.

Then the room exploded, ropes and whorls of magic cracking in every direction, and there was a change; darkness came down; the bottom fell out of the world.

* * *

It was in a barren place that Xan came around. He was aware, first of all, of the chill; next the total absence of noise. Not even the sighing wind, which had been audible in the sanctuary, persisted. He got up and rubbed his aching limbs; he felt as if he had walked a great distance.

There was nothing around him but a sweep of rock-like ground. He had seen sketches of the surface of distant stars, reproduced by the farthest-roaming astral travelers, that resembled this. The air was black, and gave no resistance as he walked through it. The entire world seemed like a cheap illusion.

Then there was a sound. At his back, the frail, birdlike cry of an elderly man, accosting him: "_Fah_!—Infidel! Look what you have—look what you have done to me! And your foolish self as well!"

Xan turned, smiling. When he spoke, the words seemed to come from someplace beyond his mouth, but he was heard nonetheless: "Is this what an astral pathway looks like? I'd never seen one before. Rather pleasant, isn't it?"

"The curse of the Void on your foolish head, spell-breaker!" choked Semaj. He stood some twenty paces off, on the same featureless ground, holding his robes with a single withered hand. His body, millennially old, seemed appropriate to such a desolate place. With the other hand, he clutched his staff.

"Oh dear," said Xan. "You mean you didn't intend to end up here? How – humiliating. But don't worry; I'm certain it happens to every mage, sooner or later…"

"I will flay the skin from your muscle, muscle from bone, bone from the marrow—" Then at once, Semaj mastered himself, and resolved his shaking face into a familiar evil calm. He smiled. "But why do I waste myself on such useless tremblings and angerings? _Selah_. You are but a broken wreck of a man. A fool who destroys himself: helpless and dissolute. You are not my equal – you are not even fit to receive the smallest truth from my hand. _Selah_. You will fall to the Void, like every other, and I will return to complete my work. My culling. You are a nothing, enchanter. Nothing!"

"No," said Xan, with an unironic confidence that rang unfamiliar in his ears. He smiled, and repeated: "No. _You_ are nothing, old man. Nothing but a doddering elderly fool, not loved by anyone. Kept company only by your own insane ravings. I nearly pity you. Well – perhaps not _so_ nearly. Others at least are honest lunatics. But you – I can see – all your life, you've turned your own fearsome mind toward the task of driving yourself, and others, mad."

Semaj answered smile with smile: "Those who speak, understand nothing. _Selah_."

"I understand you all too well."

Then it began.

A duel between two mages, in particular those who study the softer arts – the manipulation of minds, and the complex patterns of defensive and countercursive spells – is an odd and remarkable occurrence. A spectator to such a duel might only see two men, standing nearly motionless; their fists balled, eyes locked, moving only a little if at all, and muttering furiously, as if they were trying through sheer force of will to blast their opponent into dust.

In the substanceless air between them, a nearly-invisible pattern formed, the blasts of aether left by the collision of shields and spells designed to overcome shields; the wasted trails of lethal hexes turned aside. It hung, like an enormous maze, with a kind of eerie beauty, in the air for a moment; then Semaj, with the slightest pull of his right hand, gained the advantage, and the entire crystalline structure collapsed before his spell. It rushed at Xan with the speed and force of an arrow, and struck him off his feet.

The Domination hex, unaided by jhossweed, was still slung by a powerful sorcerer whose favorite hex it was, and fueled by all his willfulness and hatred. Xan felt it push through his forehead like a dragon's talon, and

_He was a boy, watching his father writhe on his deathbed, poisoned by an assassin's arrow._

He could not have mastered his lungs to speak a counterspell. Thought was the only weapon at his disposal, and he thought of Felix – rotting, trapped in a cell by the whim of this madman; shaking and raving after his mind had been violated – the child, nearly dead, denied water – all the havoc, across the countryside, fanned by that hateful sticklike man, for no sane reason at all – he may not have known what was right or if he did he may not have always sought to do it, but by Corellan's sacred mercy he damn well knew what was _wrong_ now didn't he—

_Elisia looked back over her shoulder, laughing, saying: "_You'll_ protect me, won't you?"_

Xan, with a scream not unlike Sarevok's, threw his body upward and gained his feet.

Semaj staggered.

For a moment, the spell was held between them like a sword gripped at either end; then Xan, grinning, laughing, spoke his own Domination spell, and flung both out at Semaj Ahil-Nezar, who had no illusions anymore to hide behind.

They struck the old man and sent him sprawling, light as he was, and then a different scene appeared before Xan's eyes.

Like the moments of his own past into which the spell had plunged him, it had all the reality of a memory – but after a moment, he realized that it was no memory of his own.

_A man, thin and bald but not yet truly aged, stood at the end of a long hall. Others sat cross-legged around him. They were all dressed alike in the same pale garments._

"No!" Semaj wailed, clawing at his forehead. "Gods damn you, _no—_!"

_One man, seated on a cushion at the extreme end of the hall, was not thin but terrifically fat. He had an expression of great contentment on his face. When he spoke, it was in a soft and beautiful voice:_

"_Lamalla Su, acolyte of the twenty-eight step. Come before me, child; you are welcome here."_

_Master," said Lamalla Su, and advanced down the length of the hall._ Xan had no trouble recognizing Semaj. He was younger, and prouder; his back unbent, he walked with a broad smile, but it was not the same smile as his Master's. There was a touch in it of something other than contentment.

"_Acolyte, I bring you here on a trifling matter," said the Master._ Xan saw the flash of wariness on Semaj's face – after all, as an acolyte of the twenty-eighth step, he would have been forever on his guard for the infamous test: the twenty-ninth, the Breaker. _The Master went on: "You know of our most sacred relics, that the uninitiated may not even hear spoken of, let alone glimpse?"_

"_I do know, Master," said Lamalla._

"_A thief has been among them."_

"_No!" said Lamalla,_ with what seemed to Xan a slightly exaggerated horror. _"What has been done to them, Master?"_

"_They have been touched; nothing more. They have not been stolen. Yet this, in itself, is a matter of much graveness."_

"_I understand."_

"_What should be done with the thief, my child?"_

"_Your Holiness knows best," Lamalla answered cautiously._

"_Acolyte, I have consulted _you_."_

_There was a pause. Then Lamalla said quietly: "They must be put to death."_

"_Is there no other way?"_

"_None," said Semaj, more surely. "They must be taught a lesson."_

"_Very well," said the Master, and clapped his hands. "Produce the Thief."_

_A door was opened, and two of the robed men led in a girl – not past her thirteenth year, young, lithe and strong, smiling at the assembly as she chewed on the end of a fruit._

_Semaj flinched. "Kaolla," he hissed; the trap was sprung, he glanced around, rodent-like, for some escape._

When the Master spoke again, Xan was less impressed with him. There seemed to be in his voice, something of a school-teacher's pedanticism. _"So you see," he said, "the criminal is none other than your own blooded daughter, acolyte. Should the sentence still be pronounced as before?"_

"_Oh, father!" said the girl, Kaolla, waving merrily._

_There was a long terrible silence._

Semaj, on the astral pathway, had sunken on his knees. "No," he whispered.

"_Kill her," said Lamalla Su. "There can be no mercy for the infidel: even such a one."_

_There was a rustle among the crowd. Clearly, none had been prepared for such an answer: even on the Master's implacable face, a touch of alarm was obvious. "Are you certain, acolyte?"_

"_Yes!" said Semaj, and the loudness of his voice caused every other acolyte to flinch. "Put her to death! I have spoken according to your teachings, and I stand by your word!"_

"_I have taught compassion. You have forgotten the teachings, and you spit on their face!" the Master answered, and there was now very little calm in his voice. "You have failed your test; many have: and many have held their tongues, and continued on their journeys, prepared for a second chance—"_

"_Kill her!" Semaj raged, and the girl now gaped at him, tears welling in her eyes. "Kill her! Kill her!"_

"_Guards!" wailed the Master, moving back on his cushion. "Remove this human fiend from the sacred vault at once!"_

"_Damn your eternal soul, you overfed, pontificating fool!" Semaj spat at him. "You were right: this world is rotten!—And you are rotten as well! I will carry out the work for which you proved too weak, old fool! I will destroy it all!—Damn everything! Damn it! Damn it! Damn—"_

"Damn," whispered Semaj, curled in on himself at Xan's feet. "Damn."

"You're disgusting," whispered Xan. "At least you could face your doom like a man. But you didn't then. And I see you won't now."

He seized Semaj by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet, and gripped his frail head between his hands. Glaring at him, he spoke the words: "_Sen. Callah fel. Nah._"

The Feeblemind spell coursed through his fingers, and writhed over Semaj's wasted face like a nest of worms. "Damn," Semaj muttered again, but the word was lost in an incoherent mumble as his eyes went wide and idiot; and his jaw went slack.

"Oh you ass," said Xan, his voice trembling with pity and hatred. "Where is your great mind now?"

Semaj only gaped back at him, with half the yellow teeth in his mouth; insensible, unable to understand a word. Xan cast him away.

"Wander this airless hell forever," he whispered. "I don't know if you'll die – but if you don't, then perhaps after fivescore years, it will humble you."

"_Guhhh_," said Semaj. "_Awahhh_…?"

Xan raised his hand. "Good-bye forever," he said, and spoke the power word of returning. His body shimmered and paled; then vanished, leaving nothing but the void, no sign a living being had ever stood there.

Semaj stared dumbly at the spot for a moment. Then, on his hands and knees like an ancient beggar, he began to crawl, feeling his way, singing snatches of senseless tunes as he made his way slowly into nothingness.

* * *

In the sanctuary hall, a score of people, who had lain motionless after a blast of light coursed over them, began to stir. Felix got to his feet. The room was ringing, as if an enormous scream had just been unleashed. Every candle had gone out.

He was the first to stand, and as the others did, he quickly noticed that only Xan remained prone. He rushed to the body; Imoen also, who had fallen next to him, scrambled to his side.

"Are you alright!" said Felix. "What happened. Xan?"

The mage was breathing, and his eyelids fluttered open.

"I've been there," he said, in a voice as faint as a sigh.

"Where?" said Felix, gripping his shoulder. "Where?"

"To the end…of everything," said Xan. "And I saw – oh gods. What I saw there."

Then his eyes fell shut again. Felix pressed his hands on his chest; he was breathing still. "He's alive," he said to Imoen – then, behind him, came the incredible sound of an armored man getting to his feet, and he sprung up, turning around.

Sarevok stood upright in Duke Belt's gore. Angelo stood some ways back of him – his men, on awakening, had fled through the rear door by the altar – but there was no sign of Semaj.

Imoen, Shar-Teel and Jaheira moved toward Felix.

"Still here," muttered Angelo, in the hoarse voice of a recently-woken man. "The devil…"

"Yes," said Felix. "Still here." To those around him, he said: "Stand by me."

"Dosan?" said Sarevok, gripping his sword.

Angelo drew. His cavalry saber glinted dull in the lightless room.

"Still here," he said again, eyeing Felix. Then he smiled. "Ah well. All the worse for you, my friend."

They stood where they were. No one said another word.


	32. Duel: Final

AN: Okay, folks. Here we go.

"Lay on, Macduff,

And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"

—Macbeth

* * *

Then Sarevok turned. Felix's eyes, darting after him, saw the horned helmet where it lay on its side, by Duke Silvershield's carcass. Even in his rage, his brother kept his head.

Angelo quickly moved to cover his master's flank, and put his sword between Sarevok and the company. His expression was hard: Felix recognized what had been absent from Sarevok's bloodshot face; a certain knowledge of the dangers and trials of combat. Angelo, skilled though he might have been, lacked Sarevok's superhuman strength, and faced them more cautiously.

Felix and Jaheira shared a glance. Brief; but from all their time together, it sufficed. Felix cut his head to the right, toward Sarevok; Jaheira, understanding, gripped her staff at her side and ran, cutting past Angelo, straight at Sarevok as he knelt to grasp for the helmet. Angelo turned his head for an instant; quickly, he spun back, as Felix and Shar-Teel rushed at him with swords drawn.

He parried three blows easily, and the stone hall rang with the noise.

"It's not too late," said Felix. He advanced, gripping the Walking Stick with both hands; Angelo stepped back with an expert fencer's ease, his eyes never leaving his two opponents.

"Neither for you," he said, still with his bitter, tired expression. "You're young. Don't be an idiot. You could walk away…"

"You wouldn't let me," said Felix. "You know as long as I live, I'll oppose your plans."

He lunged; Angelo stepped aside, and gave him a shallow cut on the arm. Shar-Teel, looking on, knew it could have been deeper.

"Do you so love your own death?" said Angelo.

Even as they traded words, Shar-Teel padded to the right, moving around to strike at Angelo's flank. He never looked around; but lifting his hand, said: "_Khessah, vhal_"—she struck with both blades; they were thrown back by an invisible hand, never touching his skin, and she was knocked away by the force of her own blows.

Angelo allowed himself a thin smile. "After I left the mercenary trade, I took up the arcane arts. Nothing quite like it for keeping your hide safe."

"Is that all you care about?" Felix shot at him.

"Enough! Are we going to fight it out with words, or swords?"

"Neither, apparently," said Felix, eyeing the barely-visible protective dweamors that had sprung up in the air around him.

"Oh dear." Angelo's smile widened. "Do you find me – unchivalrous?"

"Keep on him, manchild!" yelled Shar-Teel, rushing back in: "The spell will fade!"

"No doubt," said Angelo, spreading his arms to bait them, unafraid. "But until then – _your_ bare flesh is helpless. And Justice may be blind—" he swung his sword—"but I'm not."

"You don't really want to kill us," said Felix, quietly. "Do you."

"Try me," said Angelo, and swung at him. Their swords joined again: two, three, four strokes, traded between two well-versed swordsmen, Felix's enchanted blade against Angelo's more practiced hand; and the fight began in earnest.

Nothing Felix had learned in the practice hall availed him against Angelo. The former mercenary fought with no one obvious style, but with the one he had developed over his long fighting life, employing tricks Felix had never encountered; striking out with his off hand, smashing with the sword's spiked pommel when he drew close. Again and again, only the Walking Stick's enchantment saved him from the death blow, and the pommel spike opened vicious wounds on his shoulder and forearm. On Angelo's right, Shar-Teel rained futile blows on his protections; grunting, almost sobbing with rage. Now and again he flung a single careless blow in her direction, and their swords met; Felix, taking his opening, found the protection still in place. Angelo batted them off like flies, with no great satisfaction, but an increasing reckless weariness.

* * *

Jaheira could have dispelled the shield, but her charge toward Sarevok had been halted.

As she closed within a staves-length of the stooped armored figure, another scream, simultaneous with the clash of Felix and Angelo's swords, came from the vaulted ceiling: looking up, raising her guard, she saw what she had expected, loathed; never exactly feared. It had been some time in returning, but it was hatefully familiar.

Neria's body, like a black steel boulder flung from a distant crag, impacted against the floor with a terrific noise and uncoiled in midair, into the bladed, insectile body of the former priestess. Twitching and lolling, it stood before Jaheira, the shadows dense around it.

"_Ia, ia,_" it said – noises no longer resembling, even slightly, human speech.

Jaheira looked at the thing, no more expression on her face than on its wooden mask. She gripped her staff.

Sarevok, as surprised by Cyric's intrusion as Jaheira, twisted around to smile at the awful spectacle.

"Brilliant slaughter!" said Neria, in Cyric's jarringly urbane voice. "Excellent. Stand, priestess, and die like so many others…Oh blessed day for dying!"

"Come on," said Jaheira, and stood her ground. "Come on."

Neria, unarmed but for the jagged tips of her fingers, charged and leapt. Jaheira stood to receive her. Then, instead of swinging the staff, she let it fall to the ground and opened her arms.

Sarevok, holding his helmet, gaped. He saw the druid catch the hurtling metal body as if it had jumped at her in the eagerness of love: she staggered but kept her feet, and grappled it fast.

Neria, writhing and screeching, struggled against the grip; her metal hands tore into Jaheira's back, shredding the leather and chainmail, drawing blood. Jaheira's arms had locked around her waist, and Jaheira's head was buried in the pit of her stomach: they fought topheavily, grotesque and nearly comical, and Neria could not escape.

"Stay," Jaheira hissed against her. "By all the stars in the heavens, I will hold you." Then, working her head away, she cried out to some distant hearer: "Silvanus! Your servant invokes your name. Might Silvanus, wise Silvanus; lord of the forest, keeper of the Way! Twice, thrice, your loyal servant invokes your name!"

"_Ia_!" gargled Neria, "Cyric! Aid me!"

"Ilmater!" Jaheira screamed over her. "Lord of love among brothers; keeper of those who love and forgive! A woman of goodwill invokes your name!"

"Cyric! Help of murderers—"

"Silvanus, lord of Justice! Ilmater, lord of Love! Hear my plea now! Come down; pour out your power and mercy; dissolve the evil magic, binding this wretched creature to the world! Grant her peace in death!"

Gibbering, screeching, Neria beat on her back more furiously than ever; but she was weakening. Some power held her limbs.

"Ilmater!" cried Jaheira. "I bear my foe no grudge! I take upon myself that punishment my heart had reserved for her! Come down now, in your majesty; come down! _Come down_!"

Before Sarevok's amazed eyes, something inexplicable began. There was no sound or flash of light to show a god's intervention, but the substance of Neria's melted body began to melt again. Her limbs, tar-like, stretched-out; the mass of her trunk began to melt and bubble over Jaheira's head. Horrible noises flooded from her collapsed face; but with greater and greater difficulty, as the wood of the mask, the matted hair and the soot-black metal ran together, dissolving.

"Come down!" Jaheira screamed a final time: then Neria flooded over her, enfolded her in a steaming black cascade; boiled and scalded her like molten iron; finally steamed away, filling the air with poisonous clouds of smoke; leaving her kneeling, choking, half-alive. As the smoke cleared, Sarevok saw the result: her skin, where the substance had coursed over it, was marked by vivid purple bruises, as if she had been beaten from head to foot with an iron rod. She shook all over.

The last traces of Cyric's servant dissipated into the air. An evil smell, like a rotted egg, remained.

Jaheira gained her feet with difficulty. Her hair had come entirely loose, and was plastered over her shoulders; her face, half-concealed, was pale.

Sarevok fitted his helmet on his head. From his feet, he took up the greatsword, coated from its tip down its fluted sides, down the channels meant to let the gore flow, with the blood of two great men.

"Nearly…" wheezed Jaheria. "Nearly. My life's labor nearly done. Only you remain."

He faced her. Then he lifted the sword, so that she saw it well. "Oh woman," he said, and his voice had a softness: a regard. "Do you believe I am some boy, to be disciplined? I have trained with my weapon since I was a child of ten. I am as strong as a score of strong men; but you are weak. This is no boasting. If you face me, then you will fall."

"I may," she said, "but _you_ will fall here – make no mistake."

"If I should die, then I will know I have met my match. _Selah_. But I will not fall to you," he said, and leveled his sword.

"Gorion!—Khalid! For the fallen!" Jaheira answered, raising the staff; and they came together like two waves; one newly risen out of the depths, the other almost spent, but both of enormous power.

* * *

Felix bled all along his forearm; Shar-Teel, exhausted, could barely lift her swords. Then with a visible flicker, Angelo's shield fell. He was taken by surprise: he failed to sidestep, but only parried when Felix darted in, and Shar-Teel swung twice and cut him all down his side. The wounds were deep and clean; blood flowed in a sheet down his hip and leg, and into his gleaming cavalry boot. He reeled back, shrugging off the pain, but lifted his sword-arm again with difficulty.

"_Morroh_!" he said, as Shar-Teel leapt at him.

Rushing at her from all sides, like missiles, strings of energy quickly encircled her. Before either she or Felix could understand it, the hex had taken effect. She hung in the air, as if held by strings, spinning helpless. An invisible globe, the reverse of Angelo's shield, hung in the air around her; Felix recognized the spell from a primer: Otiluke's Resilient Sphere. It took a mage of no small ability to cast it so quickly, in the thick of combat.

Running his hand down his side to stay the blood flow, Angelo glared at him, saying: "No more games."

Then the arrow rammed through his shoulder.

If Imoen has aimed a sight lower, she would have pierced his heart and won the fight; still he winced, and quickly pulled free the shaft, unmindful of the new blood running down his tunic. Felix wondered how much they would have to spill before he gave out, since he seemed indifferent to the pain. Between the two wounds, they had spilled a great deal.

But thinking they had won, he was unprepared when Angelo spoke another command word, waving his sword, and pointed it at Imoen.

He vanished. The air around him shimmered, for a moment, in the shape of a door, as if he had merely stepped backwards through it.

Felix spun back, horror turning his guts to stone. He was powerless. Ten yards separated him from Imoen: he could only watch as Angelo stepped out of the air in front of her, merciless, and swung his sword once. The bow and string were cut in half. She fell.

Losing himself in an instant to a heedless rage – no different, he knew as it gripped him, from Sarevok's – he lashed the air with his sword and charged.

Angelo stood his ground, unfazed, and at the last moment raised his hand and said: "_Sah brakh nah_."

Felix was snatched off his feet. He felt them leave the ground; felt the air leave his lungs as enormous pressure built around them. A huge invisible hand had him in its fist: he felt each finger pressing on his ribs.

Angelo looked up at him, his eyes incurious, having seen more men die than he could properly count. Slowly, he began to curl the fingers of his upraised hand. Felix screamed: in anger and pain, still desperately struggling toward him, toward Imoen's prostrate body.

"I told you so," said Angelo, softly.

Then the throwing axe once owned by a rogue named Nimbul, guided true by its enchantment, turned end over end through the air and struck the same shoulder as the arrow.

Shar-Teel stood, brushing her arms. The Resilient Sphere had faded.

Angelo stood unmoved for a moment, never having flinched. The axe flew on until it reached the end of its magical tether, then hurtled back the way it had came. Angelo's right arm hung by a rope of muscle; returning, the axe chopped it cleanly through.

Now with an expression of mild surprise, even curiosity, on his lotus-aged face, Angelo looked at the place where his arm had been attached a moment before. Then he dropped, in a careless sideways fashion, the glimmer leaving his eyes.

* * *

Felix spared not a moment. Leaving Shar-Teel to end it, he turned and searched for a maddening instant for Jaheira.

She was nowhere to be seen. In the dark, backmost recess of the sanctuary, Felix made out Sarevok, standing alone, his mailed shoulders heaving, leaning on his sword.

He took several great strides forward, and stood at the shallow step leading up to the altarpiece. The scarlet carpet was everywhere darkened by a second layer of red. Then he did see Jaheira, stretched out at Sarevok's feet, unmoving.

A sputtering, somehow acutely human noise came out of Sarevok's throat; he coughed twice. Then he looked up and caught sight of Felix.

His eyes glinted out from under the fanged visor of his elaborate helm, almost seeming yellow in the weird dim light, and fixed Felix's triumphantly.

"She is dead," he said. "I killed her."

There was no malice in his words: only pride. Felix remembered when he had conquered Neria, and Semaj; and finally butchered Slythe, like a pig at the troth, when his enemy was incapacitated. He had felt horror – but he had also felt the same. Glad that he was alive; glad that his foe was dead.

He felt that understanding, now, and little else. The sight of the body, its face turned away from him, was puzzling; difficult to understand.

He sheathed his sword. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, but he struggled to make himself heard: "Sarevok!"

"What."

Felix looked at the man who had robbed him effectively of father and mother both, but who had lost his father and mother, too, and he sheathed his sword.

"I don't care – what's happened," he said, and his voice nearly failed. Speaking was like forcing water out of a rock. "Put – down your sword. And come forward. And let me clasp your hand – like a brother."

There was a long silence in the hall. Then Sarevok spoke.

"You are no brother of mine," he said. "Our divine sire is dead. His blood no longer binds us."

"Dead—!" Felix started. "No…I've felt it—seen it; dreamt of it—"

"What you have felt," said Sarevok, dragging the tip of the sword over the tile floor, "is only the urging of your own foolish, mortal soul.

"Bhaal did indeed hope for life everlasting. But what was once dead, cannot be returned to life. The resurrection that he hoped for, was the same that all men hope for: that his children would carry on his work. Do you understand?"

"And you have acquiesced," rasped Felix. "You have become his slave."

"I am no man's slave!" said Sarevok. "I was taught the truth by Semaj Ahil-Nezar. All men are driven by their will. Their will is fury – fury lashing against the ties that bind them fast; the ties of virtue, the ties of family – the ties of weakness. But I have purged myself of all these. I am an unchained man, and I do as I like; and will reach as far as I like: that is our purpose in this wretched world. That is the only purpose we may make of it. To grow strong! And I am strong. And free.

"_Selah_."

"You aren't free," said Felix.

But his voice had faded past a whisper, and Sarevok heard none of it.

"Draw," he said. "Draw on me, if you think you are my better. Draw for revenge; for virtue; what you would call it. Only draw."

Felix raised the sword, still in its scabbard, and held it shakily.

"Ha!" Sarevok's breastplate rattled against the laugh. "Die, then; die like every other!"

And he swung the two-handed sword, and it split the air with a sound like storm winds.

Felix retreated slowly, facing Sarevok. The first collision between the leather sheaf and the bare sword, longer than Sarevok's arm, shook all through his already shaken frame. He stumbled: Sarevok swung again, and the air screamed over Felix's head, and several of his dark hairs fluttered away.

"Draw," Sarevok said, and heaved the sword down over his shoulder. Felix dodged; it split the carpet and tiles like water. He kept his steady progress backward, pausing only to carefully step over Duke Belt's body, then down off the altarpiece.

Sarevok took a quick step; the sword cleaved near on Felix's right, and trimmed off skin and tunic like a narrow slice of meat.

"_Draw_!"

Felix, gritting his teeth as his shoulder bled, gripped the scabbard and slowly worked the blade free. Sarevok, advancing, smiled.

He swung again, and the bare blades met. Both magical, they repelled each other; but Felix, lighter, stumbled again, and began to circle deftly to the side. They exchanged blows; Felix rolling with the impact to keep his feet, dodging and weaving, while Sarevok pressed down on him like a cart-horse. Neither spoke; grunted; cried out; it was a ritual carried on in almost pious silence.

Felix stepped on Duke Silvershield. As they both paused, thrown off their rhythm, he braced one foot on the fallen Duke's chest and made a careful, desperate blow.

Chung Kae's Walking Stick met the great two-handed sword at a perfect angle, and with a high loud noise, clipped it in half. The end of Sarevok's sword shot into the air and landed a yard away.

Still holding a yard of steel, Sarevok seemed to consider pressing the attack regardless; then, with a spitting laugh, he flung it aside. Felix changed his grip. Sarevok, balling his huge mailed fists, ran at him unarmed.

His armor protected him from head to foot. Though it was light in places, he moved too quickly and attacked with too great a ferocity for Felix to judge a blow at his shoulder, waist or groin; he punched and kicked, weighed down by the plate but still insanely quick, and a glancing blow from his hand caught Felix square in the chest and knocked the air out of him.

Choking, wheezing, Felix pedaled back as fast as he was able, and Sarevok pounded down on him, full of violent mirthless purpose.

The narrowest opening—

Somewhere, in the stillness of the death-choked room, a voice spoke two words. Something hissed through the air, at Sarevok: it struck him under his armpit, where two plates of metal joined. There was a hissing noise.

Felix, bracing himself against a bench, saw a frothing green mass eat through the black plate, even as Sarevok beat at it and cursed – he lunged. The breach was narrow, but wide enough to drive his sword in: grappling Sarevok around, as if in an embrace, he put the whole length of the Walking Stick in his tender chest.

For a moment they stood, their arms around each other, as if they were dancing. Sarevok's own iron arms closed around Felix's slender body. They pressed in. Felix, his face trapped against Sarevok's spiked right shoulder-plate, gasped; his eyes filled with tears. Still, even as his ribs groaned audibly, he kept the sword buried, feeling the heaving in Sarevok's chest through the armor; the pitiful straining as his body squeezed its own life blood through the wound.

A moment before he would have shattered Felix's spine, Sarevok's grip slacked. His head lolling over Felix's shoulder, he let out a sigh: then Felix struggled free, and he collapsed backwards, with a crash so enormous that the windows rattled in their settings, and the trembling chandeliers shed a few fragments of crystal, falling on the ground like tears.

Familiar pain gripped Felix's arm. The Walking Stick did its work, extracted its price for blood, and he stood and bore it until it passed.

Shaking, he looked around. For a moment he hoped: but Jaheira lay as before, and had not moved.

"Here," said a dry voice, unmistakably Shar-Teel's.

He looked and saw a man, standing upright in spite of his wounds, who faced him with a grim smile and, bringing up his remaining arm, saluted him.

Felix returned the salute.

Angelo collapsed for the second, and final time.

Leaving Sarevok where he lay, Felix walked to where Angelo lay at Shar-Teel's feet, not far from Xan and Imoen. Shar-Teel stood with her swords sheathed, and her narrow, hard-muscled arms crossed over her chest, looking down. As Felix neared, Angelo reached up towards her, unable to speak, the ends of his fingers moving feebly.

Stone-faced, she kneeled next to him. His fingertips brushed her cheek, and moved her brittle yellow hair a little. Gathering his breath, he said, slowly and softly, but distinctly:

"You're so beautiful."

Then, his already unfocused eyes drifting away from her face, he looked up at the featureless ceiling, seeing something that neither Shar-Teel nor Felix, looking after him, could make out. A smile of warmth and brilliance lit his face for a moment; then, as it faded, he said:

"It's so beautiful."

Then, whatever he had seen, his eyes shut on it. He was dead.

Felix straightened up. "Did he say anything?" he asked. "Before?"

Shar-Teel, straightening also, dodged his eyes. "He asked me if I loved you," she said.

"What did you tell him?"

She turned her back to him, cold and alone in the enormous hall. "I don't know."

"You don't know what you told him?"

"That _is_ what I told him."

Felix heard a whimper. Quickly, flinching that he had forgotten for even an instant, he knelt by Imoen. She looked up at him with big lucid eyes. Angelo's sword had cut halfway across her body, underneath the right breast, and her stomach was bleeding slowly: it was an ugly, wrenching wound to look at, but he looked.

"You did great," she whispered, smiling.

He gripped her hand. "So did you."

"I guess – this is it?"

"You mean for you?" he said, and shook his head firmly, smiling. "No. No."

She shut her eyes. "I feel…so cold," she said.

"It's alright."

Shar-Teel knelt again, and together, working from her extensive knowledge, they tamped the wound with a folded length of her cloak and bound Angelo's shredded tunic around her midriff.

"You're going to make it," Felix whispered.

"I'm not."

"Yes you are."

She paused, unanswering.

"Say it. You are."

"I'm – gonna make it," she said, uncertainly.

"Right."

He straightened again. Slowly, stiff-legged, he crossed the floor, his footsteps ringing. He knelt once again next to Jaheira. With great care, he turned the body over onto its back. Her eyes were closed. He wet his finger and held it by her mouth, but felt nothing, although he tried to convince himself he did.

He had prepared himself, as he walked, that she would die; but not that she would be dead. That there would be no last word – last advice, last promise; last embrace.

Sarevok's sword had gone through her twice, through the leg and then the chest. Recalling the fight, he tried to decide if her death had served any purpose: if Sarevok had been tired; if his sword had been chipped from collision with Davaeorn's staff. Although he raked the memory over and over, he could not decide.

He stood back up. It was only when the drop of water landed on his tunic, and when he lifted his hand to his face to discover more, that he realized he was crying.

To thwart fate – to supply his own end to the story; her story – he searched his memory for some bold saying that had passed her lips, that _should_ have been her last words. But all that came to mind, stinging him worse than Sarevok's sword when it had clipped his shoulder, were the words she had spoken as she stood in a lightless attic room, staring out the window: _Yours is a trail of tears. I knew that long ere I began to follow it myself._

_You are _not _to blame that the way is hard, and you are _not_ to blame for those who fall along it._

But he was to blame, he knew; and he had paid, and would continue to pay so long as he lived.

He arranged the body so that the limbs lay neatly, and brushed the hair away from the face. Then he walked to where his brother lay, not far off. Sarevok was also dead. Felix knelt, pried the helmet off the proud head, and put it aside. The face underneath was a mirror of his own, though there was no physical resemblance: a nervous, intelligent cast, no violence in it any longer. Sarevok had died with an anxious, perplexed expression on his face – trying to understand, Felix imagined, what was happening to him: how _he_ could be the one who had died.

He lowered his face and pressed his lips to the forehead. It was already cold.

He arranged the body, and piled the fragments of the sword on the armored chest. Standing again, another came up behind him. Arms circled around his waist. He looked down at them, dumbly; at the toughened hands, tender as they lay on his skin. He put his own hands over them.

"What we were afraid of," he whispered. "It happened. Didn't it?"

"Yes," said Shar-Teel, her head resting on his shoulder.

"So what now?"

"I guess," she said. "I guess now – we see."

* * *

Angelo opened his eyes. He heard soft footsteps: puzzled, he looked around, and saw a pair of boots near his head.

"Come on," said a voice. "Why, this isn't like you at all. Never knew you to take a rest on the job, old man."

"But I'm hurt," said Angelo.

"Nonsense." His addresser leaned down, and put out a gloved hand for him to grasp. "Come along. Can't keep them waiting now, can we?"

"Who?" said Angelo: then, rubbing his eyes: "Where are we going?"

"Well," said the man, and laughed. "As to that; you'll see." He chuckled, and repeated to himself: "You'll see."

Angelo took the hand, and let himself be pulled up. Then, leaning on Nimbul's shoulder, he moved slowly away from where his body lay, smiling, on the cold floor of the sanctuary.


	33. The Shade's Story: Brother

Day in, day out. As the sun dips below the horizon, so a brief, contemptible life snuffs out.

Strong minds fade to nothing; strong bodies melt and rot, like clay that melts in water.

Father, father; why did you bring me into this world?

I despise you, merciful one; and spit on the face of your mercy. I would have my own death first, before I would have life on your terms. A life is worth little, and can be got for nothing: what I want, be it life or death, is worth a great lot.

Father, father; why did you bring me into this world?

I regret only that I could not take another life: one more sad soul, to drag down among the shades here, to keep me company. Your life. In dying, I curse your heart; and my curse is this, that you will follow me, as surely as morning becomes the day and day becomes night; as surely as plants spring up and die; as surely as men live, kill, and then are returned to whence they came. You will not escape. No one escapes. There is no escape for anyone: not for sons or fathers, mothers or daughters, sisters or brothers; good men or wicked men, saints or murderers.

Father, father; why did you bring me into this world?

My tongue is numb. I can speak no more.


	34. The Shade's Story: Final

Day in, day out. So is a child born into this world.

May your days be bright and full of song

Your nights warm; never lonely

Your table always set,

And all your wishes winged to the stars.

May the built-up trappings of power, in defense

Fade away in time

Rotting from want of use.

May the creased brow smooth;

The hard heart, soften;

Steel become like wool

And boiled leather, like a babe's skin.

May you forget me.

Fly where you will,

And when you will;

My life eternal

That I never knew

in life.

My yellow-headed girl;

My Angel, my Only.


	35. Riders on the Storm

"Only now is the child finally divested of all that he has been. His origins are become remote as is his destiny and not again in all the world's turning will there be terrains so wild and barbarous to try whether the stuff of creation may be shaped to man's will or whether his own heart is not another kind of clay."

—Cormac McCarthy, _Blood Meridian_

* * *

The rain came down in sheets. After a day's space, it had returned with a vengeance, and pounded the street outside the guardsman's cubicle. He watched it, shuddering with every thunderclap: though brave in a fight, he had been terrified, every since he was a child, of lightning.

Two riders approached from the direction of the city, moving hard underneath the storm's assault. It was a journey of at least a day and a night to the Friendly Arm Inn, the nearest safe house, and he envied them nothing.

He stepped out from under the outpost's awning, and put his arm out.

"Name!" he demanded.

The two horses stopped, side-by-side, and stood obediently in the downpour. Each had two riders: on the one nearest him, a young man held the reigns, and a young woman gripped him fiercely around the chest from behind. They both wore heavy cloaks; yellow, straw-like hair stuck out, unruly, from underneath the girl's hood. On the other horse, another girl was mounted side-saddle behind an older man. Both were too far off to be seen clearly through the columns of rain.

"Party of No One," said the young man.

The customs guard peered at him, unimpressed. "No One, eh? And where you all headed, party of No One?"

"Nowhere," the young man said.

"Now we don't want any trouble here," said the guard. "Why don't you be a dear, mate, and tell us your names?"

The young man reached into his bag and took out a sparkling coin. He tossed it to the guard, who caught it deftly.

"Thanks, mate," he said, and grinned, and winked. "Safe journey to Nowhere, eh?"

"Yes. Take care," said the young man, with off-putting sincerity.

The guard motioned them on, and watched them go with an uneasy expression. He rolling his large jaw thoughtfully. Then the rain came down behind them, like a thick black curtain, and even the light hindquarters of the horses vanished. The _clip-clop_ sound lingered on for a moment; then the rain swallowed that as well, and the guard was left alone, in the dark and wet.

There was a crash of thunder: the guard winced, jumped, and hurried back inside the warmth and light of the cubicle.


	36. Epilogue

"And that," said Tranzig, looking up, "as they say – is that."

His listeners sat in uneasy silence for a moment, mulling over his last words. He took up his pipe, lit it with gusto, and sat puffing on it as he watched them. A pewter tankard stood at his elbow, and he chased the tobacco with a stiff measure of whiskey.

Finally the thug called Amalas, scratching his head, said: "But there's one thing I don't get, eh Ziggy. How come the bloke didn't _want_ to kill his brother? The guy was a tuppin' bastard, weren't he?"

"Eh," said one of his own brothers, shaking his head. "That's how heroes is. They's always doing mad things, like not killin folks, or not wantin to kill em, or not takin their money when they does."

"Aye, right!" said another man; but far down the table, keeping his distance from the others, the well-groomed Gaelen Bayle spoke.

"Was the bugger a hero, then? Coo, _I _wouldn't say. He didn't seem all that brave, or clever now; bless me, if he didn't."

"Naw, he was a hero! Just a bleedin strange one, is all!" Amalas shot back.

In their contention, many looked back to Tranzig, who sat comfortably in a drifting nimbus of thick black pipe smoke. The mage looked back at them, and shrugged.

"What can I say, boys? I saw the bit I saw. And the rest is only what I was told. And as far as I know, every word of it's the truth; and that's all I know. So I know _what_ he did; _why_ he did it, I can't say, and the way I see it, it's _his_ damned business."

He exhaled, and his face was obscured. Behind the cloud, he could be heard laughing, low and thin.

"But that's not the life for me," he went on. "Nah. Let me stay right here. Not too big; not too grand. All I need's a coin in my purse, and the name of the nearest public-house. Eh, boys?"

At this, they all agreed; and there was a loud exultant cheer.

Clearing the smoke with his hand, Tranzig leaned forward, smiling, and raised his tankard, proclaiming: "To the only sure things in life: ale and whores!"

"Aye!" answered the table, raising their own sloshing tankards. "Hurrah, for ale and whores!"

* * *

**Part Three: Baldur's Gate**

**The End**

* * *

_Final Author's Note to follow._


	37. A Few Words from the Author

**A thought:** Given the whole theme of deadbeat dads, shouldn't I have put Coran in the story?

**I. Cast List Addendum**

Shar-Teel – Hilary Swank

Semaj – Sir Ben Kingsley

Davaeorn – Bob Hoskins

Dermin – Edward Norton

Slythe – Robert Carlyle

Kristen – ? (funny how there aren't many chubby, unattractive actresses working in Hollywood today)

**II. Logical Gaffes**

I won't actually fix these things, for various reasons – generally because it would ruin some effect – but they're funny if you notice them.

—Here's the big one. If Rachel, the barmaid, was a brunette, and Angelo has 'dark hair,' then how in the hell is Shar-Teel a blonde?

—When the party is on the raft, it mentions something about the river being tainted by runoff from the mines – but the river is running inward, _toward_ the mines.

—In the fourth duel, it says that Slythe drops the Walking Stick when the curse kicks in – but next thing, Felix is 'prying it out of his dead hand.'

—In The Breaker, it says that Sarevok's wearing 'half plate' – but he sure seems to be wearing full plate when he duels Felix.

—I'll check, but I'm pretty sure Angelo's not high-level enough to be casting Bigby's Crushing Hand, let alone as his 'favorite spell.'

—I don't really have any idea if slitting the end of your tongue would make you lisp. I don't think it would: I think it would prevent you from talking coherently at all.

—Alright, so Khalid was killed by an evil cursed blade, or something. But they sure as heck could have raised Jaheira, right? And for that matter Angelo, since he turned good and everything? Right? (See: Final Fantasy VII)

**III. The Soundtrack**

I imagine this is one of those things that interests the author far more than the readers, since few things are more subjective than taste in music. Still, if your taste in music overlaps with mine, you might get a kick out of this.

I think I mentioned in the author's note that the duel with Davaeorn was written to the strains of The Beatle's _I Am the Walrus_. For such a dark story, Beatles songs played an inordinate role in getting it written – especially the pair of _Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight_, from which Imoen's lines in chapter twenty-six – 'a way to get back home' – and the title of chapter twenty-eight, both come. _Helter Skelter_ covered the duel with Slythe and parts of the final battle, and I'll never be able to break my association between Shar-Teel and _She Came in Through the Bathroom Window_.

But my favorite band is Oasis (the _Wonderwall_ guys), and aside from _A Bell Will Ring_ being actually featured in chapter five, _Stand By Me_, _Fade In-Out_, _Colombia_, _Born on a Different Cloud_ and _(It's Good) To Be Free_ were all playing at one point or another. Oasis also contributes a phrase that I think describes Felix perfectly: "He is just a child with nothing to lose but his mind." _Live Forever_ appears as a chapter title; the Undercellar door guard's coinage, 'what's the tale, bitter ale,' is of course a rephrase of What's the Story (Morning Glory). Riders on the Storm was originally titled Don't Look Back in Anger.

_Riders_, of course, by The Doors, is debatably _the_ kickingest song ever written, and if you listen to it when you read the chapter – like I did when I was writing it – I like to imagine it's really epic. _The End_, also, as featured in "Apocalypse Now," is Semaj's theme.

Finally, and most appropriately, the Kill Bill soundtracks. The ten-minute flamenco cover of _Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood_, as well as backing the Bride when she dueled O-Ren Ishii, backed Felix when he dueled Sarevok. A song that didn't actually appear on the soundtrack – Ennio Morricone's _Navajo Joe_, Bill's death march – is, by association for me, an extremely moving piece, and what I was playing whenever someone died: especially at the end.

**IV. Cameos & In-Jokes**

Possibly even more useless than the last section since, if you would have gotten it, you got it; and if you didn't, it's not a whole lot of fun for me to point it out. But nonetheless.

—The Grand Inquisitor, titled after the chapter in Dostoyevsky's _The Brothers Karamazov_, features Smerdyakov, the parricide from that book, standing in for Neb. And if you didn't know that, then – well – I, uh, apologize for ruining the plot of one of the greatest novels ever written. It just occurs to me.

—Kaolla Su, Semaj's daughter, is on loan from the manga Love Hina: they both hail from made-up countries bearing a suspicious resemblance to India.

—Tarnor the Hatchetman apparently survives his run-in with Jaheira to be a big pest in the sewers of Athkatla in BG II.

—The Tranzig chapter has a great deal in it of the first scenes of Pulp Fiction. And come to think of it, Slythe and Kristen aren't at all unlike Pumpkin and Honey Bunny, from the same.

—The Apocalypse Now parallels were pointed out, but it's worth nothing that Davaeorn's inaudible last words are almost certainly: "The horror…the horror."

—More of an unconscious than a conscious reference, but in retrospect the childhood gang of Bones, Nimbul, Fox and Dragonfly can't help but remind me a little of the childhood gang of Mooney, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs.

—I think I already mentioned this in an author's note, but the 'Kara-Turan trap artist' who accompanied Angelo in his youth is, naturally, Yoshimo.

**V. Plot Graveyard: What Might Have Been**

—More on this later, but, while Xan was there pretty much from the beginning, the decision to use Shar-Teel came late in the game. This had a _huge_ effect on the plot, since she ended up killing Nimbul instead of Felix. I imagined Nimbul attacking the party while they were bathing and Felix was unarmed; then Felix would flip out, as with Tarnesh, and kill him more or less with his bare hands. That this didn't happen altered Felix's entire character (again, more later), and tends to suggest that Khalid's explanation – that Tarnesh's horror spell backfired and drove him berserk – is at least partly correct. I like the fight between Shar-Teel and Nimbul, though, much better than the scene I would have written – it's one of my favorite scenes in the story – and of course, she ended up being essential to Felix's development, and especially Angelo's.

—Slythe and Kristen were also late additions. Even at the time I gave Slythe a line in the mock political commercial after part two, I wasn't intending to use him. After I gave him that line, though, I started to think about how I would write him, and a very strong image formed: after that, I couldn't _not_ use him, and all of part three had to be basically restructured.

—One major change in part three is that originally, Imoen would be called on to infiltrate the Iron Throne compound to gather evidence (her response: "Yer all buffle-headed!"). In the process, she would encounter and defeat Cythandria. As much as I wanted to give her that scene – her character greatly dwindled in importance because she lost it – it ended up not fitting the mood of part three, which was informed more than I had expected by the death of Khalid. By the time they reach Baldur's Gate, everyone is emotionally exhausted: there's not much room for heroics and daring-do. The episode with Felix in the Undercellars, though, I had planned all along – and that did, very much, fit the mood.

—Also, instead of Slythe's corpse coughing up the evidence to incriminate Sarevok – which broke the trend, which I was quite proud of, of my villains not stupidly leaving incriminating signed letters everywhere – Tamoko, as in the game, was supposed to contact the party. I pulled that because a), I didn't think the story could bear the weight of another fully-developed character at such a late stage, and b), Sarevok, as I wrote him, is probably a virgin. There's something very sincere and childish about him, which may or may not be obvious, but I don't think he's ever had a lover – or ever been that close to anyone.

—First Jaheira died. Then she didn't. Then, sadly, she did again. I originally imagined her jumping on Felix to save him from a fireball cast by Angelo – then, as the story evolved, I considered setting her up with Felix, then even with Xan. But finally, none of that seemed like it would work. For a number of reasons, I think her death was necessary: not least of all, because it solves the problem of her grief. Now, at least, she'll be reunited with Khalid.

—The final battle was originally faithfully staged in the Undercity. First they would fight Angelo outside the chapel, then Sarevok inside. A kind of realist instinct, though, forced me to scale down a lot of things, and the final fight is one of them. I think in the end it's a lot more effective because it takes place between human beings, without any of the trappings of supernatural power around them.

—Speaking of which, I always meant for Xan to interrupt Semaj's spell and strand everyone in some kind of limbo – but originally everyone else had a part in that, and they would wander around, facing metaphorical representations of themselves etc. (if that 'etc.' doesn't seem justified, and the whole idea seems weird, you don't watch enough anime). But again, I think the simpler sequence, as it stands, is much better.

—Given all that, it's worth nothing that many specific things, planned from the very beginning, were rendered completely faithfully in the end: such as Angelo losing his arm, then looking confusedly at the place where it was a second ago, then collapsing without a word.

—Last of all, Kristen survived because she was meant, in typical James Bond fashion, to return at the very end and attempt revenge for Slythe. Felix would disarm her, then spare her. In the end, it just didn't happen. The final chapter was too grand, too apocalyptic – after that, there couldn't be any more action: there was nothing left to do.

**VI. Final Author's Note**

Well, it's over. Started long ago in the boredom of Summer, and carried on through the ridiculous busyness of Fall, it's finally over.

It's hard to know what to say. Which isn't to say, that I don't have anything to say, and just feel like I _have_ to say something – it's just that I don't quite know where to start.

I've told this story before, I think, but I might as well tell it again. The seed idea for _Fury_ came from the video game Metal Gear Solid 3, itself heavily influenced by Apocalypse Now. In it, there's a character called The Fury, an ex-military commando was sent on one of the first space missions and apparently, therein, lost his mind. Now he flies around on a jetpack, torching people with a flamethrower. When he meets the hero, he says something along the lines of: "They sent me into space…and do you know what I saw there? Fury! A great terrible fury _at being alive_."

Italics mine.

And that's what Fury is about – or at least, what it tries (sometimes too hard) to be about. That means that necessarily, it sometimes lets its source material down, but in the end I think I was able to do what I wanted to. _Fury_ is the antithesis of the adventure story: an anti-epic.

What I mean by letting down the source material is, there's obviously a lot more of me in the story than there is of Baldur's Gate. Except for the unshown encounter with the 'giant river snake' (a nod to my favorite movie of all time, Anaconda), there's no monster combat. There's very little accumulation of magical trinkets, except to further the plot, and no real sense that the party is getting stronger, better. And of course that's fine: there are plenty of talented writers devoting their energies to exploring all the minutiae of the Baldur's Gate world; all the little touches that made the game so fun to play. _Fury_ is just a story, about certain themes, and certain characters.

It also lets down the material, though, in that it underwent a very dramatic change in theme. As you can see in the summary at which I left unchanged the whole time, even though I hate it: "A young man finds himself hunted, marked for death by powerful enemies of whom he knows nothing...but the real threat may lie closer to home,"—the story was originally supposed to be more about Felix's inner demons, and the idea that, in his own way, he's no better than his enemies. The latter idea remained, in a changed form; the former kind of faded away. In the final encounter, when Sarevok says that Bhaal is dead, we believe him – because Bhaal, and Felix's Bhaal essence, have had such a dwindling bearing on the story.

(If you want to see an excellent film that deals explicitly with themes that Fury ended up shying away from, I highly recommend David Cronenberg's recent _A History of Violence_.)

I don't know if I regret that. I'm very happy with the final product, and I think, in its own way, it all works toward a unified effect. But it is a different effect from the one I'd planned originally.

The thing is that I was trained as a realist writer. I never read Tolkien. Neil Gaiman and Stephen King (whose Dark Tower series was a major style reference for _Fury_) are the only fantasy-esque authors I read thoroughly. Magic, and the physical incarnation of gods, don't come easily to me. This manifests itself all over the place – sometimes amusingly; sometimes for better effect, sometimes for worse. Again, I like the way it turned out, but part of the reason that Bhaal became such a bit player in the story is that – well, it struck me as unrealistic. Which may seem funny in a world where people magically heal wounds by putting their hands on them, but that's the kind of the thing.

_Fury_ is all about people smoking pipes, clinging to their belief systems, looking out for Number One. The Tranzig chapter is one of my favorite chapters, because it's so characteristic of the story. It's Quentin Tarantino, Graham Greene and Cormac McCarthy, and I think it's as realistic as a fantasy story could realistically be – which isn't some kind of boast, just an observation. I like the realism, and I think it allows what's ultimately most important to shine: the characters.

One of the things I like most is the wide spectrum of villainy portrayed – Neria the fanatic cultist; Nimbul the unscrupulous mercenary; Semaj the corrupt intellectual/spiritual leader and his disciple Sarevok; Slythe, the psychotic, drugged-up rude boy; Davaeorn, the greedy capitalist; Rieltar, the politician, who sanctions the evil he does not commit; finally Angelo, in a sense the ultimate villain, who knows better but only rarely acts it.

_Fury_ is about human beings – a phrase that sounds tired, and a little conceited, but which I hope is true. It's about Angelo and Sarevok, Felix and Jaheira, Mia and Kaili; what people do when faced with hard moral choices, the loss of loved ones, and the difficulty, so frequently overlooked, of simply being alive.

**VII. Dedication**

It's just some story I posted on the internet, I know, but I can't help but get a bit choked-up right now. I'd like to thank all my readers at both and The Attic, especially Bjrn and Kulyok, who commented on every single chapter – but also in no particular order, Weyoun, IronDragon, Laufey, banality, Anna, Calimbor, Bibbi, Starx, MordorianNazgul, Wyvern, Futurist, Abbil, Cantrip, Snackfiend, Lucky, Rand Al'Tor, Treymane, Vitae, Kendris and Theodur (apologies if I forgot you) – who commented/reviewed – and everyone else who didn't, whom I would thank by name if you had commented and I knew your name

And hey, if you've ever commented – and heck, even if you haven't – by all means, drop a line now, and say what you thought of it in the end. I'd love to hear from you.

Because, like my idol Tarantino, I find it easier to quote than to coin a new phrase, I'm reminded of the words of another fanfic writer: "Guardian," whose truly epic Final Fantasy IX story, Go Not Gently, terminated in an author's note containing the following statement: "I love you all. I will seriously bake you a chocolate cake if you come around to my house. It won't be a very good chocolate cake, but it'll be a chocolate cake."

Couldn't have said it better myself. Except, as I'm male, it probably won't even resemble cake. But I still love you.

I'd also like to thank the sites that allowed me to post this, for free, on the internet, which is kind of remarkable when you think about it. And finally, I'd like to dedicate _Fury_ – if the dedication of such a thing could be considered any great honor – to the memory of my own father, who passed away February 2004, and who was a much, much better father than the extremely dim view of fatherhood in this story might lead one to assume.

Love & Peace,

Incanto/SisterVigilante


	38. Extra, extra: Angelo lives!

Just a bonus for everyone who still has this story on update alert (after all these years), really :-)

We may never see Felix make it into the world of Baldur's Gate II. However!

Angelo Dosan is now a joinable NPC for BG II, written by yours truly and coded by Kulyok. He's not quite the Angelo of Fury—he's (mostly) kicked his lotus habit, for one—but he brings many of the same traits into CHARNAME's service. The mod is currently in beta testing and should be released within a month or so, at which point he will most likely be found at the Gibberlings 3 modding community! (They won't let me type in the url. It's "gibberlings3" followed by "dot-net.") We hope you enjoy it! While you're at it, I provide the voice (and some writing) for Kulyok's Xan NPC, currently residing at Pocket Plane Group.

Happy Holidays,

Incanto (SisterVigilante)


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